The Dreamer
by Silbrith
Summary: Neal determines that a Corot is actually a forgery by the Dutchman, and goes undercover with Peter at a ski resort to investigate. Diana begins writing stories to influence Azathoth. Sara receives a proposal. H/C: survival crisis on a snowy mountain, injuries. Jan-Feb 2005. #13 in Caffrey Conversation AU where Peter recruited Neal instead of arresting him.
1. A New Year

_Notes: Although this story is part of a series, it can stand on its own. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. Readers new to this AU may wish to refer to the notes at the end of this chapter for additional background information. The Dreamer takes place in the winter of 2005. Neal is working as a consultant at the White Collar Division of the FBI and starting his second semester at Columbia University for a dual master's in art._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: A New Year**

 **Burke Residence, Brooklyn. January 16, 2005. Sunday afternoon.**

"After last term, I expect this semester to be a sleeper."

Neal wiped his hands on a towel and looked over at Peter and Elizabeth with a raised brow, daring them to say otherwise. The three of them were standing in El's newly remodeled kitchen. Peter and El had taken advantage of the last weekend before the start of Neal's classes to invite Neal over to celebrate the beginning of his second semester at Columbia University. Classes were due to begin on Tuesday.

Peter snorted. "I wish." He half-expected to see goons and cutthroats peeking out from behind Neal's apron. Neal's mischievous blue eyes smiling at him did nothing to reassure him about the semester coming up.

In the fall, despite an assortment of robberies, kidnappings, and hostage situations in addition to the routine fraud and embezzlement cases, Neal had somehow managed to attend classes, write papers, and prepare for his upcoming art exhibition in May. His pursuit of a dual master's in art history and visual arts had resulted in unexpected side benefits, enabling several cases to be solved in a series of surprising twists that no one could have predicted. But the past term had also held far too many gut-churning moments. Peter didn't expect the second semester to be any different.

The kitchen remodeling project had finally been completed in December. El and Neal had often talked about cooking together, and this Sunday provided the perfect opportunity. Outside, snow was falling, but the house was filled with warmth and merriment. A hockey game was on the TV, but no one was paying any attention to it. When Peter was a child, his mom used to celebrate the start of a new semester with spaghetti and meatballs. She always baked a cake so the boys could blow out the candles to bring them good luck. Today they were going upscale with Neal in charge of the coq au vin. No cake with candles but there would still be fireworks since El was preparing crêpes Suzette. Peter was given the onerous task of chief taster.

Initially Peter had attempted to watch the game while eavesdropping on the constant stream of chatter going on in the kitchen, but he quickly abandoned hockey and headed for the kitchen—he was missing out on too much of the gossip. This was the first chance for the three of them to be together since Hawaii when all the Burkes and Caffreys had gathered for the marriage of Neal's aunt Noelle to Peter's brother Joe.

El stood at the stove making crêpes, but they weren't the only items being grilled. "So fill me in on the good stuff, like what's happening with Fiona? Are Aidan and Keiko still dating? Details please."

Neal grinned as he reduced the fire under the coq au vin simmering on the stove. "You want the scoop? Okay, here goes. Answer to Question Number One: Yes, Fiona and I are still seeing each other. Yes to Question Number Two: Aidan and Keiko are still together." He dipped a spoon into the pan to taste the sauce.

"Isn't that my job?" Peter protested. "It smells delicious. When can we eat?"

"Maybe another thirty minutes." Neal said. "That reminds me, I need to check on the French bread in the oven."

"All these aromas are torturing me," Peter moaned.

"Here, munch on a carrot stick," El said heartlessly. "Or would you rather a celery stick?"

"I'd rather be dipping hot French bread into coq au vin," Peter muttered, rummaging in the drawer for a spoon. Going over to the stove, he dipped it into the pan.

"Careful, it's hot," Neal warned as Peter closed his eyes in pleasure while licking the spoon.

"What's the news about Angela?" El asked. Neal's cousin was scheduled to start classes at Columbia this semester. She'd graduated from the University of Washington in December and had been accepted into Columbia's PhD program for ethnomusicology. "Is she settling in okay?"

"Seems to be. She was lucky to find university housing. She's sharing an apartment on West 120th Street, not far from my studio." Neal lowered the oven temperature. "Columbia's quite a change from what Angela's used to in Seattle. I think she's feeling a little out of place. I told her she should come to our band rehearsal. That will start up again next week."

Last semester Fiona had started a Celtic fusion band on campus. They met on Sunday evenings. The band was composed of six of their friends at grad school plus Travis from White Collar who had joined them in November. Some of the musicians like Neal and Fiona were already skilled, but a few of the members were beginners. Peter had to smile when he heard Neal talk about the adjustment problems Angela might face. Last fall Neal had been the one feeling strange to be on campus, and now he was acting like an old hand at it.

El added another crêpe to her growing stack on the counter. "At the Thanksgiving party, I talked with Michael, your enthusiastic if struggling tambourinist. He's from Seattle isn't he? I believe he mentioned his undergraduate degree is from the University of Washington."

"That's right. Henry may be a help, too. He's promised to be better about keeping in touch with both her and me. Apparently he's still riding a guilt trip, from, as he puts it, abandoning us to the wolves last fall when he was in India."

Under normal circumstances, Peter would have simply been glad to hear Neal talk about his cousins, but the present situation was hardly normal. Now, he was forced to evaluate every bit of information Neal provided about Henry to see what bearing it had on the search for Garrett Fowler, an FBI agent who last fall had attempted to frame Neal with the theft of a pair of diamond earrings from the FBI vault. That Henry had injected himself into the search for Fowler might still prove beneficial, but at the moment it was causing Peter one gigantic headache. After having been discovered to be making inquiries about Fowler, Henry had claimed he'd dropped the case and had asked Peter not to mention it to Neal. But it wasn't like Henry to give up so quickly. He'd pursued other cases for years on his own. Yet one more reason Peter predicted the semester ahead would not be the sleeper Neal confidently asserted.

Peter eyed the tray of raw veggies El had placed on the counter and helped himself with what he hoped was a noticeable lack of enthusiasm to a carrot stick. "How's Henry enjoying his new role at work?"

"With the facial recognition project? He likes it. They're targeting airport security. They have big dreams to market it internationally. Henry mentioned he'll soon start consultations with enforcement authorities at several sites. He hopes to set up a test project within the next month."

El turned the burner off and placed the pan in the sink. "Perhaps he can combine some of those trips with his new volunteer work, the global education through music initiative. I talked with Henry about that in Hawaii. He was enthusiastic to get started."

"The headquarters for the initiative is here in New York, in the United Nations complex. Henry can keep tabs on us and check in with them at the same time. Henry's eager to do field work. He's even trying to learn a little Spanish. Up to now he's never shown any interest in learning a foreign language." Neal took off his apron. "You know I was concerned last December how Henry would make the adjustment back to a normal job after everything that went on last summer. Would he be too bored? It looks like he's had no problem finding new outlets."

Peter mustered up a smile. If Neal only knew. Henry had never mentioned knowing about Fowler's connection to Vincent Adler or that they were both hiding out in Argentina. But hearing about Henry's travel plans had to make Peter wonder. Was Henry foolhardy enough to go to Argentina on his own?

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dinner was finally served and, no surprise, Neal's coq au vin fully lived up to Peter's expectations. Over dinner El asked, "What classes will you be taking this term?"

Neal refilled her glass with wine. "Seminars on abstract expressionism and Italian Renaissance painters. Sherkov, my advisor, is teaching the latter. Then there's this other course I signed up for in a weak moment . . ." Neal winced. "Not sure how long I'll last in it."

Peter paused in sopping up sauce with a slice of French bread. "You can't stop there. What gives?"

"It all started innocently enough. Richard, Aidan and I were celebrating the end of the first semester and completion of our papers at the Roaring Lion Pub. It was getting late, and we weren't feeling any pain. Richard came up with the bright idea that we should each take a course out of our comfort zone during the second semester, assuming we survived the first one."

Aidan and Richard were also part-time grad students and on Neal's fencing team. "Nothing wrong with that," El said. "College is supposed to be a broadening experience. You should take advantage of it to expand your horizons. "

"Well, we decided to add a twist. We made a pact to pick courses for each other. At the time, it sounded like a good idea. By light of day, I'm not so sure."

"What courses did you choose?" Peter asked.

"You know Aidan—anything earlier than 1990 is considered prehistoric in his world of digital media. So Richard and I made him sign up for a survey of Japanese painting. It focuses on the period from 700 to 1800. Keiko's ecstatic about it. Wants to teach him Japanese."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Peter commented. "A chance to study with one's girlfriend should never be knocked. What's Richard taking?"

"Special Effects Makeup and Prosthetic Design. It's being taught as an experimental course by the film school. I'd picked out French Impressionists, but Travis suggested this one instead. You may remember that he's been trying to persuade Richard to submit a sculpture for the upcoming sci-fi convention, Tac-Con. The course itself sounds fascinating. I wish I'd signed up for it too, but it's now oversubscribed."

"Do you know the dates for the convention yet?" Travis was the electronics specialist at White Collar, but Peter knew his passion for electronics had met its match with sci-fi. Hopefully there wouldn't be an urgent case around then, as he'd undoubtedly be requesting time off.

Neal lifted his glass to Peter. "Interested in going, are you? The last weekend in February. Plenty of time to plan. We could make it a team-building event, wear costumes—"

Peter held up a warning hand. "Oh no, no costumes for me. That gaming convention we went to last fall was the last one I ever intend to participate in."

"Never say never," Neal chided him.

El, ever the empathetic wife, must have noticed the steam escaping from Peter's ears at the mention of costumes and helped him out by changing the topic. "I noticed you haven't mentioned your own course yet."

Neal's expression turned gloomy. "I think they ganged up on me. Would you believe, Fundamentals of Computational Art Design? I looked over the syllabus, and it says no knowledge of programming is required. But I have a bad feeling. It's being taught by the computer science department instead of the art department. Not a good sign." Neal turned to El. "But enough about me—what about you? Are you going to be too busy with Burke Premiere Events to do anything else?"

"No fears about that. At the community theater, we're starting rehearsals for a new play, _Bus Stop_. The action takes place in a diner during a snowstorm. I'm playing the part of Cherie who dreams of becoming a nightclub singer."

"Do you know who your love interest is going to be and should I start to worry?" asked Peter as he poured the last remnants of the wine into his glass.

"Yes, I know, and no, you have no reason to be concerned, that is as long as you don't ignore me for the FBI all the time."

"Big talk coming from a woman who will be abandoning me in a few weeks," Peter countered.

"What's up with that?" Neal asked.

"El and two of her college roommates are taking a long weekend to go to the Lynx Mountain Resort."

Neal gave a soft whistle. "I've heard of that place. High-end luxury all the way. You'll be hobnobbing with the rich and famous. I didn't know you skied."

"I don't," El said. "I don't even ice skate although Peter has been promising me for years he'd teach me." She paused to toss Peter a reproachful glance. "Maybe this will be the year? Lisa and Sylvia both ski. For me the resort is going to be a weekend of pampering and spa treatments. There's a piano bar that's supposed to be excellent. I could use it as research for my role as Cherie. Lisa signed the papers on a painful divorce last month, and we decided to take this trip to help her transition into her new life. We're going during their Winter Festival weekend and they have special events planned. Sylvia is a travel agent and was able to get us a special rate."

"So while I take care of Satchmo and shovel snow, El will be at a glamorous resort, with ski instructors in Nordic sweaters cozying up to her, asking her out for fondue. . . ."

"You could always plant a bug if you're worried," Neal suggested.

"Shhh . . . don't give away all my plans."

"All right, you two. I just want you to behave yourselves when I'm gone." El gave them the stern look she usually reserved for Satchmo. "No emergency calls from the hospital. Is that too much to ask?"

Once dinner was finished and the food polished off to the point that the plates hardly needed to be washed, they made quick work of clearing the table. El asked Peter and Neal to dim the lights and return to their seats. The tapers on the dining room table were still lit. El brought in a copper skillet of crêpes and set them aflame. Once the flames died, she dished out the crêpes while Peter went over to the sideboard and poured them three glasses of brandy.

Peter raised his glass and made a toast. "To victories at White Collar, Columbia, and Burke Premiere Events!"

 **White Collar Division. January 18, 2005. Tuesday morning.**

A new semester might be starting at Columbia, but at White Collar it was business as usual. Neal was expecting a routine day when he arrived at work on Tuesday. Last week he'd assisted on solving a public housing bid-rigging conspiracy. His assignment had been to prepare research on the suspects, and today's enthralling challenge was to write up his notes. Jones was leading the investigation. He had a meticulous attention to detail that must make him the dream of prosecuting attorneys. His new girlfriend was in the D.A.'s office. No wonder she was attracted to him.

Jones didn't show up for the regular morning briefing. Neal noted his absence with surprise since he'd been in the bullpen when Neal had arrived. It was a small group in attendance. Besides Neal, only Peter, Travis, and Diana were present. For routine briefings Peter usually didn't drag Travis out of the lab. Neal eyed Peter, suspicious that something was up, but he gave no indication of anything out of the ordinary. His announcements were all bland vanilla, leaving Neal puzzled why he'd even bothered to call a meeting.

Jones finally arrived as Peter was wrapping up his comments. Acknowledging Jones with a nod, Peter explained he'd been away researching a lead which surfaced this morning and he'd let Jones go into the details.

"This concerns Azathoth." That was unexpected. After going so long without any leads about the cybercriminal who'd kidnapped Peter and him in October, Neal had resigned himself to wait till Azathoth made another move. Last month he and Peter had discovered an origami ornament on the Christmas tree at the Museum of Natural History which bore the design of a glowing branch, the symbol used on Azathoth's museum security malware. At the time Neal had been sure that Azathoth was teasing them with a message he was going to make another grandstand play, but so far nothing had happened. They'd been carefully monitoring museums for any robbery attempt which made use of his malware, but the only known instance since December was in Budapest in January when the Fine Arts Museum was robbed of several nineteenth century works.

In the fall the glowing branch malware had been implicated in robbery attempts at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Brooklyn Museum, and the Museum of Natural History. So far the identity of the cybercriminal responsible for the malware was unknown. The only real clue they had to go on was his fascination for H.P. Lovecraft, the horror fiction writer. The glowing branch symbol which the criminal had appropriated had been designed by Lovecraft as part of the fictional universe he'd created for his stories. Mozzie had given the criminal the nickname of Azathoth, a Lovecraft deity. After the initial discovery in New York, Interpol had also been researching past museum robberies. Up to now the only incident uncovered was in July of 2004 when the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam was hit.

Jones started off by summarizing the status of the case. "As you know, our efforts since the kidnapping have had few positive results. The owner of the bait shack where Neal and Peter were seized was unaware that it had been appropriated. As for the house where they were held captive, it'd been empty for decades. Eight years ago it'd been inherited by a plastic surgeon in Montreal by the name of Gilbert Bergeron. We considered him to be our best lead, mainly because he was our only one. The only data about him that raised a flag was his receipt of a large payment from an Austrian biotech company, Maier Bioscience, in November of 2004. The surgeon's refusal to give us any specifics about the payment raised a warning flag, but it could easily be legit. He claimed he was doing research on a new product and had signed a confidentiality agreement. He'd also received several payments from the same company in 2000."

"Did Interpol ever find out anything about the payment?" Diana asked, tapping impatiently with her pen.

"No, it's been stymied by the strict privacy laws in place," Jones replied. "We placed an alert on Maier Bioscience to be notified of any activity it conducts in the States. This weekend a possible lead surfaced. An apartment in Queens had been leased out for a year by a company that specializes in providing temporary housing for business clientele. They'd brokered the lease for Maier. I questioned a representative of the housing company this morning who supplied these additional details. Maier had contracted them to lease the apartment last August. They'd said they expected the apartment to be used by various employees on a short-term basis."

"Is the apartment currently occupied?" Neal asked.

"Doesn't appear to be. It's a furnished one-bedroom in Flushing near Flushing Meadows Park where the Unisphere is. When I talked with the landlord this morning, he said the apartment was vacant and he's given us permission to search it."

Peter outlined the plan. Given Azathoth's past history, he was implementing extra precautions. They'd take the van, with Travis, Neal, and Collins assigned to monitor communications while the others made a preliminary search of the premises. If no booby traps were found, Neal and Travis would then join them in the search.

Neal was disappointed but not surprised by Peter's caution. He'd grown to accept it as one of the disadvantages of being an unarmed consultant rather than an agent. And he had to admit, after being rescued by the van in December, he was tempering his earlier dislike for a vehicle he'd dubbed the cell on wheels.

"What about the Lovecraft angle?" Travis asked. "Has anything come from that yet?"

Jones shook his head. "I'm plugged into several online forums and discussion groups. I even set up my own blog over the holidays. You should check out _Scribbles from Shoggoth_."

Neal smiled and made a note of it. Jones as a Lovecraft blogger? He'd have to add some choice comments. "Got many followers?"

"Already over five thousand," the proud blogger admitted. He nodded toward Diana. "You gonna tell them about the . . .?"

Diana exhaled noisily, looking none too pleased at his request.

Neal wasn't about to let that rest. "Full disclosure, Diana."

"All right, but no snide comments."

"Such as you would make if we said whatever you're about to reveal?" Neal asked pointedly.

Acknowledging the truth of his statement with a shrug, she said, "I've started writing Lovecraft fanfics. Last month when I was monitoring an American club, I read a blog about it and became intrigued. I read several over the holiday break and decided to give it a whirl myself."

Peter looked at her, puzzled. "Fanfics?"

Unexpectedly, Travis was the one to answer Peter's question. "Fanfiction. It was popularized during the early years of Star Trek. _Spockanalia_ , the first Star Trek fanzine, featured fanfics and popularity has skyrocketed since then."

"There's no charge to post the stories online," Diana said. "The Lovecraft fandom is fairly small—not like Star Trek or Harry Potter, for example—and the probability of acquiring useful intel is low. But who knows? Azathoth may be into fanfiction, perhaps as a source of ideas. I thought I'd start with a few short pieces to build up a following. My intention is to eventually write a story which incorporates elements from the kidnapping and see if anyone takes the bait. Would she be vain enough to comment?"

"She?" Peter asked, startled. "You believe Azathoth's a woman?"

"Simply because the voice you heard in the house of horror was a man's, we shouldn't discount that a woman might have been disguising her voice."

Diana's fanfiction angle was the sort of approach Mozzie would be fascinated by—put out a lure so enticing the mark wouldn't be able to resist. On the ride to Flushing Neal talked with her about the project. Diana had taken writing courses in college. An avid gamer, she was treating the challenge as an elaborate freestyle video game. Peter and Travis joined in the lively conversation. Apparently Travis had read a good deal of _Star Trek_ fanfiction as a boy during the lean years between _Star Trek_ and _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ when the only _Star Trek_ shows on TV were repeats of the original series.

At eleven o'clock Jones parked the van in front of the apartment complex. The eight-story red brick buildings appeared to be well-maintained with small patches of lawn and manicured shrubbery in front. The building they were interested in was on the corner. When Peter, Jones, and Diana entered the building, Neal and Travis put their headphones on. Neal dutifully listened to their communications, but Peter's caution turned out to be unnecessary. The apartment was vacant with no lurking assassins hiding behind the furniture. Within a few minutes Peter gave clearance for Travis and Neal to join them. Travis brought along his electronic snooping equipment. That was Neal's technical term for his devices. Neal brought along his expertise of where he'd hide something, a skill refined by years of collaboration with Mozzie. He was willing to bet he'd find something before Travis's equipment.

As they rode up in the elevator, Travis asked, "What course did the others pick out for you?"

"Computational art," Neal said with a groan. "I had to sacrifice a course on Matisse at the altar of broadening experiences."

Travis pursed his lips. "You get no sympathy from me. Sounds like a dream course. They were kind."

Neal slanted a skeptical glance at him. "Dream or nightmare? I'd say it's still in doubt. That was a great course you picked out for Richard. I was going to suggest French Impressionists, but this was much more creative. I wish I'd been able to sign up for it too."

"Richard has real potential as a creature sculptor. His early efforts for the convention blew me away. He could have a future as a concept artist if he wished. I thought the course would be a good way to introduce him to the world of special effects."

"You could be right. Professor Stockman raved over his creature sculptures. He'd never gotten her to praise any of his abstracts. He's now considering revamping his works for the exhibition to include more figures. Don't expect any Klingons, though."

"He can make those for me." Travis added with a grin, "And if he can make me a pair of decent Vulcan ears in the process, I won't complain."

When they entered the apartment, the others had already been sweeping the place for several minutes. Travis set up his equipment to snoop for bugs and any other electronics. Neal wandered around, tapping on the steam radiators, looking behind pictures, checking out the ceilings. Diana was going through the books in the bookcase, Peter had taken charge of the bedroom, and Jones was searching the kitchen.

"Has anyone ever stayed here since it was leased to the company?" Neal asked.

"The superintendent believes that there have been at least a few, but it's hard to know for sure as records weren't kept."

Neal stood in the center of the living room, scanning all four walls. What did Mozzie say? Be one with the apartment. Commune with its soul, its _qi_. Where does it tell you to hide something? Of course, Mozzie did that by sitting cross-legged in the center of the room and putting himself into a trance. Neal was already getting enough quizzical looks simply from standing like a slowly revolving statue.

All the spots that the living room was telling him to check had already been examined. Neal moved into the kitchen to repeat his reconnaissance. Maybe if he hummed softly a Tibetan drone, he could achieve Mozzie's state of nirvana.

Diana shot him an exasperated look. "Caffrey, focus!"

Neal closed his eyes. "Quiet, that's what I'm doing." Neal opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the refrigerator.

"Got a hunger pang?" Jones challenged.

"We need to pull out the refrigerator," Neal said.

Raising a brow, Jones dragged the refrigerator away from the wall, uncovering a horde of startled roaches who'd taken up residence among the dust bunnies. It was an old, heavy unit. Peter came into the kitchen from the bedroom and helped Jones muscle the fridge farther into the room. Neal squirmed between the counter and the fridge to examine the back surface. "Gotcha," he muttered happily.

Diana craned her neck to see. "What'd you find?"

"A mailbox," Neal said, putting on a pair of gloves. He reached inside a vinyl pouch which had been taped to the metal back cover of the refrigerator and extracted a USB drive. "Wonder what the mailman brought?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After the discovery of the hidden flash drive, the team renewed its efforts to uncover further evidence, but it was as if the place had been sanitized. By the time they left, Neal was satisfied that even Mozzie wouldn't have found anything else incriminating.

Upon arriving back at the Bureau, Travis carried the drive off to the lab for analysis, something Neal had every intention of watching over his shoulder. That got nowhere. When Neal started for the lab, Peter blocked his way. "Don't you have your own work to do?" he said in a tone that brooked no discussion of the answer.

Right. Fat chance of that happening.

No reasonable person could expect him to focus on the public housing bid-rigging conspiracy. Not when inside the lab Travis was quite possibly unlocking the mystery to Azathoth's identity. Correction—Peter would expect it.

Neal actually made an attempt. He pulled out his notes from the drawer, but he had to confess that he'd done more twirling with his pen than typing on the keyboard. It didn't help when he saw Travis, carrying a laptop, enter the bullpen. Giving him a nod in passing, Travis didn't stop to talk or even toss out a hint as he headed for the stairs going to Peter's office. Neal spent the next few minutes predicting what was going on from Travis's facial expression. Not an easy feat. Travis liked to be as inscrutable as his hero, Spock, and he was almost as good at it. A short while later when Travis came back downstairs, Neal got up to intercept him.

"Sorry, I'm under orders," Travis said. "I'm sure Peter will let you know before much longer."

Neal sighed and headed to the break room for a refill of coffee. Was Peter doing this deliberately to force him to write up his notes? He might as well put his theory to the test.

He worked on the documentation for Jones while keeping a watchful eye on Peter's office. When Hughes joined Peter, Neal abandoned his document as a lost cause and pulled out a sheet of paper to draw on. He'd nearly completed an elaborate sketch of a New York version of _Waiting for Godot_ with two men at the subway station waiting for the train which never came when he was finally summoned out of purgatory.

Neal was surprised that Peter called him into the conference room rather than his office. When he walked in, Peter was hooking up his laptop to a projector. No one else was present.

Peter's face looked unusually somber. Neal dismissed any thought of joshing him about the length of time it'd taken and quietly took a seat beside him. "Bad, huh?"

"Evidence is never bad, but judge for yourself," Peter said cryptically. "I have a copy of the entire contents of the drive." He began flashing images on the wall monitor.

Neal sat in silence, studying the images, as one photo after another of him and Peter appeared on the monitor. They'd been timestamped with the earliest ones taken on the day they'd discovered the Galileo manuscript forgery at the Museum of Natural History. The first photo was a close-up of Neal examining an enlarged image of the Galileo manuscript which had been displayed on a poster in the exhibition hall. Peter had been photographed in front of his house, arriving at work, and walking on the street. June's mansion was included in the photos with shots of Neal at Columbia and around the Federal Building. Even Family Day at Columbia had been chronicled with photos of him and Peter walking with El and Neal's aunt Noelle. From the content of the photos, it appeared that he and Peter had been equally targeted.

Neal tried to maintain his objectivity. He was no novice at being under surveillance. He'd seen the photos the FBI had taken of him before he joined them. But viewing these produced a different emotion. It wasn't just him being watched, it was Peter, Elizabeth, Noelle, their friends.

Peter turned to face Neal. "The last one was taken the afternoon we visited Mozzie before going out to Long Island on October 27."

"Were there any documents on the drive?"

Peter nodded. "In addition to the photos, there was a detailed timeline of our movements beginning the day after we discovered the manuscript and ending on the day we were kidnapped." Peter displayed the timeline but didn't elaborate on the details. Neal could tell at a glance how thorough it had been. Propelling the discussion forward, Peter said, "This is the first solid lead we've had and we're going to take advantage of it. There's no question now that Maier Bioscience has a connection to Azathoth. Hughes will contact Canadian authorities to renew their research into the doctor and is also going to notify Interpol about Maier."

Neal forced himself to be equally dispassionate. "Azathoth must have had a camera in place at the museum from the beginning. He probably only retained the photos of us."

"Makes sense." Peter pulled up a spreadsheet and displayed it on the monitor. "This is the timeline we've established so far for North America. On September 24 you discovered the glowing branch symbol on a program designed to override the security software at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We next found it on a similar program that had been used to hack the security at the Brooklyn Museum on October 11. On October 20 we found the same symbol on the Galileo manuscript forgery. The only instance we've had in the States since the Galileo manuscript was taken was when we discovered it on the origami tree at the American Museum of Natural History on December 12. It's possible that was a parting gesture and that Azathoth is no longer operating in North America."

"But the origami tree— that symbol was a personal message to us. What signal was he sending?" Neal could hear his voice growing more emotional and quickly ratcheted in down. "In Budapest, was there any indication that enforcement agents were also being stalked?"

"Not to my knowledge, but we'll share what we learned with Interpol. As far as the origami tree …" Peter paused and took a moment to continue. "We discussed at the time, that Azathoth could simply have been thumbing his nose at us."

"Yeah, or it could have been his way of saying _en garde_ , alerting us that he intended to launch a new attack."

Peter nodded. "The evidence on the drive confirms what we already knew. Azathoth fixed his attention on us after your discovery of the manuscript forgery. Your name was on the list of origami workshop leaders. It wouldn't have been difficult for him to find out you'd be working on the tree. There's no evidence of either one of us being stalked after October 27, but the lack of evidence doesn't imply we aren't still under surveillance."

Neal couldn't stay seated any longer and got up to pace. The more he thought about that apartment, the less he liked it. Turning abruptly to Peter, he said, "He's toying with us again. This is just like the origami symbol. He left the drive deliberately for us to find. No other evidence in the apartment—it must have been a plant. But what's his motivation? And why was the only information on it about us?"

Peter showed no surprise at his words. He must have been thinking the same thing. "I don't know. Hell, we're not even sure how long the drive has been there. He could have left it shortly after the kidnapping. Maybe he was annoyed we hadn't found it yet and that's why he planted the origami symbol." Peter rubbed the side of his neck, plainly as frustrated as Neal. "We simply don't have enough to go on."

"He could have easily used these photos to make face masks of us."

"You're thinking about when he tried to make you believe you'd shot me, aren't you? No question he had those masks prepared in advance. That house of horror had to take a while to construct, but we've found no one who worked on it. He probably flew in a team of workers and flew them back out immediately afterwards."

"Like a movie set built on location and dismantled afterwards . . ." Neal stopped to stand by the window. Looking down at the street, he wondered if Azathoth were out there somewhere, playing Tuesday Tails with them. He'd invented the game for the White Collar team to refine their tailing skills over the Tuesday lunch hour. Was Azathoth twisting the game to his own rules? Peter came over to stand beside him. "I've gotten too complacent. Here I was—the supposed Tuesday Tails expert—being followed and not even aware of it. I gotta up my game, Peter."

"We both do," Peter said soberly. "But this isn't a game, Neal. Don't treat it that way."

"I won't," Neal assured him. He paused and then asked the question he was sure Peter was asking himself. "Do you think our families are at risk?"

"Honestly, I don't know. He hasn't done anything yet, but that doesn't count for much."

"Are you going to tell El?"

Peter exhaled slowly and shook his head. "I haven't decided. It's a tough call. My gut's telling me that she's not in danger. Look at the way he handled our kidnapping. Even returned my car to Brooklyn."

"Yeah, for a sadistic cybercriminal, he was being extraordinarily thoughtful. Good upbringing? Can we narrow our search to only those with happy childhoods?"

Peter gave a short welcome burst of laughter. "I wish! But look at you. Your childhood had its issues and you're one of the politest guys I know." He paused and laid a hand on Neal's arm. "With no imminent threat, I can't place us under 24-hour surveillance, even if I wanted to and even if you'd allow it."

"No chance," Neal quickly confirmed.

"But . . ." Peter paused to emphasize his point. " _You_ , be careful. Keep alert."

"The same goes for you, partner."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: Thanks for reading! If you'd like to see photos of the cast members and other visuals, visit The Dreamer board on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site_ _._

 _Thanks to Penna, creator of this AU, for acting as beta reader and co-conspirator for this story. In this chapter the idea for Neal to take a course out of his comfort zone was based on her suggestion. She and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation __where we post about our stories and adventures in writing. FanFiction doesn't allow links in notes, but I've added links to both our blog and our Pinterest site in my profile._

 _If you'd like to catch up, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003. My first story, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur._

 _Background on the Caffrey Conversation AU for new readers: Our 'verse differs from canon in that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. The personalities of canon characters (Elizabeth, Mozzie, Diana, Jones, Hughes, June, and Sara) are the same. In canon, Neal's only relatives to be mentioned are his father and mother. In ours, his mother Meredith has a twin sister named Noelle who is a psychologist. She met Peter's older brother Joe, an architect, in the spring of 2004 and they were wed during the Christmas holidays shortly before this story. Henry Winslow is Noelle's son and nearly three years older than Neal. He works at a private investigation and security company named Winston-Winslow (usually referred to as Win-Win)._ _Henry's grandfather, Graham Winslow, is former CEO of Win-Win._ _Neal has one other cousin, named Angela, who is the daughter of Noelle and Meredith's deceased brother. Angela entered a PhD program at Columbia University in January of this year. You can find the entire cast on the Caffrey Conversation AU board of our Pinterest site._

 _Disclaimers:_ _White Collar and its characters are not mine._ _Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate._


	2. Suspicious Behavior

**Chapter 2: Suspicious Behavior**

 **January 18, 2005. Tuesday evening.**

Neal had stayed later at work than he'd intended in order to discuss the contents of the flash drive with Peter. Afterward, he headed straight for his class at Columbia—no time to stop off at home first. From the moment he exited the Federal Building, Neal paid more than the usual amount of attention to his surroundings. "Somebody's Watching Me" was playing in the back of his mind.

How had Azathoth's agents managed to conduct their surveillance without being spotted? He suspected much of it had been done through cameras set up at strategic sites. The photos had all been taken in areas close to known locations—the Federal Building, Columbia, their homes. To lessen the chance of discovery, Peter and he probably weren't tailed. But that didn't mean they weren't now. Neal felt his senses sharpening, his mind growing more alert. He had to admit, it was an exhilarating feeling. _Bring it on, Azathoth_.

And the result of this razor-sharp reconnaissance? Nothing in the downtown area. Zilch for the subway ride. It was only after he exited the Columbia University subway station at 116th Street and was walking through the quad that he discovered a tail, and it was of the long, furry variety. It belonged to a squirrel who followed him the length of the quad in hopes of getting crumbs from the sandwich he was eating on the way over. Neal rewarded the squirrel's diligence by tossing him a piece. Probably not a trained minion of Azathoth, but he'd keep an eye on it.

The snow shoveled off the paths made Neal eager to lose himself in warm Italian landscapes in class. This was the first session of his course on Italian Renaissance painters, and Neal could predict it was going to be his favorite. The subject matter was one he was passionate about, and it was in his advisor's specialty. Neal had initially selected him because of Sherkov's expertise in western painting. When Sherkov found out he was fluent in Russian their friendship was sealed. But that friendship only appeared to make Sherkov more demanding in class. That wasn't a concern. The Italian Renaissance was Neal's playground. Might as well say it, Neal thought with a grin. _Bring it on, Sherkov_.

Neal opened the door to Schermerhorn Hall. Currently the person he was looking forward to seeing wasn't a white-haired advisor but a certain green-eyed blonde. Thoughts of Azathoth could be put on hold. Fiona was a much more agreeable subject.

When he entered the seminar room, Fiona was talking with Sherkov at his desk. Neal helped himself to a cup of coffee from the carafe Sherkov supplied at his seminars and chatted with some of the other students while waiting for the seminar to begin. He knew most of them as they'd also attended Sherkov's course last semester.

When Fiona finished her conversation, she joined him. Greeting her, he asked about her discussion with Sherkov.

"I'll let him make the announcement," she said with an impish smile.

"So you're the one being mysterious now?"

"Pleasant change, don't you think?"

"I thought I had the man of mystery act cornered."

"Let's see if you deserve that title. How are you at solving them? Last weekend I browsed through some of the second-hand stores near Washington Square. Any ideas as to what I found?"

Neal stared off in space. "Here's a stab in the dark. Something that makes a sound and can be played in a band."

"I've become too obvious," she said with a laugh. "Still, I bet you can't guess which one." Fiona was looking elated, and Neal knew she wouldn't be able to keep it a secret for long. She'd last by his reckoning three seconds at best. "It's a tin whistle," she said, having held out a big two seconds. "I'm going to bring it to band rehearsal on Sunday."

A tin whistle was a standard Celtic instrument so Neal could understand her enthusiasm, but he did detect a roadblock. "Do you know of anyone who can play a tin whistle, flute, or anything similar?" he asked mildly.

Fiona with a flick of her hand dismissed his reality check. "A mere trifle. I plan to encourage Michael to take it up."

"Seriously?" Neal tried to tone down his skepticism. Michael was the most nonmusical member of the group. They'd let him join in on tambourine and it'd been a happy experience, his enthusiasm more than making it up for any minor misses on musicality. But learning to play the tin whistle would be a quantum leap of a magnitude he might not be capable of.

"Ever since our Thanksgiving concert he's been after me to let him try a different instrument. I was originally going to suggest a recorder, but a tin whistle is more authentic. They say it's not too difficult to learn . . . on second thought, it may have to be me. Have you persuaded Angela to come?"

"I believe so. She's nervous, though, about her skill on the dulcimer. She worries she's not good enough." Last summer Angela had the chance to meet some of their distant Caffrey relatives who were itinerant musicians and made their living from performing at folk festivals and workshops. Neal felt it was that introduction which sparked her interest in ethnomusicology. In the fall she abandoned rock for folk music, even buying a hammered dulcimer from one of the relatives who made folk instruments. Angela was a gifted pianist but playing a dulcimer had proved to be more challenging than she'd anticipated. For the first time in her life she had to learn how to tune an instrument. "Once I tell Angela about Michael and his tin whistle, she should have no more qualms."

"It's crazy for her to stress," Fiona remarked. "She's performed on a professional level for years."

"I know but that's part of the problem. She's used to being an expert, not a beginner."

Sherkov's call to have the students take their seats interrupted their conversation. After a brief introduction of the subject matter, he summarized the syllabus of the seminar, explaining that each of the ten students would be responsible for one of the giants of the period. Sherkov walked over to a side table where a brass samovar was displayed. Picking it up, he returned to the conference table and placed it beside him. "I want each of you to come up and have your turn at the samovar. Rubbing it, you see, will bring you good luck for the semester. I fully expect to be edified and enlightened by all the penetrating insights you'll be making over the course of the semester, and I know you don't want to disappoint me." He lifted the samovar lid and pointed inside. "Within the samovar are the names of ten artists. Reach inside to discover who you'll focus on. Your fate awaits you."

"Are the names written in Cyrillic?" Neal asked with an innocent look.

Sherkov took the question in stride. "No, but if you'd like to write your paper in Old Church Slavonic, please be my guest."

Fiona went first and selected Botticelli. When it was Neal's turn, he sauntered over to the samovar and gave it several slow, dramatic rubs. By the time he finished, the other students were chanting for him to pick something. He grinned when he read what was on the slip of paper. "Your samovar is already bringing me luck. I got Raphael."

After everyone had made their selections, Sherkov explained that each student was responsible for preparing a detailed analysis of a different painting by the artist each week. Midsemester they'd pick another artist. He then launched into an overview of the period.

It was a surprise to all except Fiona to hear Sherkov's final remarks. "In three weeks Weatherby's auction house will hold its European Masters Auction. Thanks to Fiona, we have the opportunity for an off-hours screening. Included in the auction are a few works by Italian Renaissance painters, including Francesco Vanni of the Sienna School and Costanzo Cattaneo. The highlight of the auction is a work by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot, _The Dreamer at the Fountain_ , painted circa 1860. This is a painting which until quite recently had been thought lost. It was described in publications of the time but subsequently disappeared during World War I. Last month it was offered up for auction by a family living in Newark whose ancestors had immigrated from Germany in the 1920s. The painting had been gathering dust in their attic for decades, and they had no idea of its value. A good lesson for all of us to examine our attics."

"The paintings are currently being prepared for display," Fiona added. "Many haven't been hung yet. We'll be able to have close-up looks and even examine the backs. We've scheduled the viewing for five o'clock tomorrow evening. You'll need to arrive no later than five, since the guards will lock the doors to the public at that time. I know that will be difficult for some of you with your work schedules, but that was the latest time I could arrange."

Fiona and Neal walked out of the seminar together. "Were there any doubts as to the authenticity?" Neal asked. "There must have been questions. Corot is known as the most frequently forged painter in history, with thousands of known forgeries already documented."

"You're thinking of the saying that of the three thousand canvases he painted, ten thousand were sold in America?" Fiona said with a laugh. "You're right, we were skeptical at first, but the painting was researched and verified by Sterling-Bosch experts in France. At Weatherby's we don't do our own verification but rely upon our insurer. That way, if ever there is any problem, it's their responsibility."

That made sense. Art authentication in Neal's view was more art than science. Partly based on the latest technology, the most authoritative authentication came from experts who were able to get into the soul of the artist and experience an almost mystical bond with them. It was a subject he was drawn to as it was closely related to his forgery technique.

"Are you going to be able to attend the viewing? Fiona asked. "Weatherby's is quite a distance from your office."

"I'll try my best," Neal promised. "I'll go in early tomorrow and if nothing pressing comes up, I should be able to make it." Weatherby's was on the Upper East Side not far from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He'd have to leave no later than four to make it. Peter would probably agree if he started an hour early and dazzled him with his love of paperwork.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On the drive home to Brooklyn Tuesday evening, Peter had debated whether to mention anything to El about Azathoth. As it turned out, her event-planning business made the decision for him. An afternoon reception had lasted longer than she expected and by the time she came home, she was ready to collapse on the couch. Definitely not the right moment to bring up a series of events which had happened months in the past. Peter called out for a pizza and they spent what was left of the evening relaxing while watching a movie. Peter let El choose and assumed she'd select a chick flick. Instead, she surprised him with _The Raiders of the Lost Ark_. She claimed watching Indy's hair-raising exploits made her own issues seem trivial in comparison. Watching the movie, Peter found himself wishing he could dispatch Azathoth with the ease of Indy.

Hughes was already in his office when Peter arrived the next day. Obtaining Hughes's approval for what he had in mind shouldn't be an issue. He stopped off in his office to check his email with the intention of having the conversation afterward and found a message from Hughes wanting to speak with him. Events were moving quickly.

When Peter knocked on the door, Hughes motioned him to take a seat and got straight to the point. "I spoke with Interpol this morning and informed them of the latest development, but they had their own news for me. Another robbery has been uncovered—the earliest so far. This one was at the National Gallery in Prague in February, 2004. They tell me a less sophisticated version of the malware which was used at the Met had been found in the museum security program. They theorize it may have been a test case."

Prague. Why did that sound familiar? Peter sat back in his chair as he reviewed his recollection of the malware history. Of course, the Kolars.

Hughes was eyeing him expectantly. "What is it, Peter?"

"When Neal was working undercover with the Leopard, Klaus Mansfeld, in September, the two tech experts Mansfeld employed were a Czech couple, Jacek and Marta Kolar. They were from Prague and returned there before Mansfeld attempted the robbery. Since they hadn't committed any crime, they weren't held."

Hughes had turned to face his computer and was pulling up the case as Peter related the connection. After a rapid search of the file, he said, "Interpol investigated them at the time and concluded their programming skills were not at a level to have designed the program. The Kolars denied any knowledge of the source of the malware and claimed Mansfeld had supplied them with the program. I'll remind Interpol about them, but given they were already questioned, I suspect there's not much further action they will take. Although the Kolars have never been arrested, at the very least they should be kept on the watch list."

"The international element to the Azathoth case is a clear indication of how unwieldy our present system is." Peter could hear the frustration seeping into his voice. "Trying to coordinate an effective response with Czech authorities through Interpol is a bureaucratic quagmire."

"I agree. Interpol's main focus is fighting terrorism. And what leftover resources they have, they allocate to drugs and the illegal arms trade. They're understaffed and underfunded. Art crimes get the short end of the stick. But their situation isn't so different from what we have in the States." Hughes leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. "You know, Kramer in D.C. Art Crimes is none too pleased that you're leading up the Azathoth investigation for the Bureau. If it weren't for the kidnapping, he would have taken it over."

"I realize that," Peter said. His former mentor Phillip Kramer, who now headed up Art Crimes, had called him about it. Although his tone had been generally friendly, he made little attempt to hide his irritation at not being in charge.

"Since the budget requests have been so minor, nobody's raising a flag." The lines on Hughes's craggy face deepened as he added, "Fortunately I've not had to explain to the assistant director why agents under my leadership are infiltrating Lovecraft fan groups as part of their regular duties."

Peter didn't blame Hughes for his skepticism about the tactic. His own first reaction had been the same. "Azathoth is unlike a corrupt hedge fund manager or a crooked developer. To have success we need to employ unconventional methods." He hesitated. "Are you ready to sign off on Tricia? I've an appointment with her this morning and would like to go ahead and inform her.''

Hughes nodded his approval. "Go ahead. Azathoth poses a significant risk and her expertise will be invaluable."

An hour later, Peter took the elevator down to the Investigations and Operations Support floor to meet with Agent Tricia Wiese. Last year Tricia had been his second-in-command at White Collar. This month she'd joined the newly created regional Behavioral Analysis team. Peter missed having her be a member of his team, but at least she was still stationed in New York and could be called upon to work with them. Starting back in November, Tricia had been assigned to the Fowler investigation as part of the training for her new job, and he hoped to make even greater use of her profiling skills now.

Tricia's smile was warm as she greeted him. "Welcome to my office. It probably looks familiar."

Her office was a duplicate of his own, even facing the same direction. "You've settled in quickly," he commented, relaxing into a chair opposite hers. The bookcase had already been filled. Peter noticed among the books a few that her husband Mitch had written. Tricia had placed a couple of photos on her desk. One was a family shot of her, Mitch, and their two sons in front of a fireplace, and the other showed them out in the middle of a field in winter gear with binoculars. "I haven't seen these photos before."

"They're from this past Christmas. I'd been gone for almost two months in Quantico. I can't remember when the last time was I had a full two weeks off."

Peter picked up the outdoors photo. "Where was this taken?"

"Floyd Bennett Field." A smile crossed her face. "If I'm going to take time off at Christmas, the family understands that Christmas Bird Counts are going to be in their future. We participated in both the Brooklyn and Montauk CBCs. It's character-building to stand outside in thirty degree weather with the wind in your face trying to count and identify gulls flying by."

Peter knew Tricia was an avid birdwatcher and that the binoculars she carried on assignments were not only used on human targets. "Until you educated me, I used to think of birdwatchers as wimps. No longer." He put the photo back on her desk. "Even with the birding, your kids must have been thrilled to have both parents home."

"It didn't last long, unfortunately. Mitch left on the first of the month. He's spending six weeks with the Toba tribe in Paraguay." Mitch was a professor of anthropology at NYU and was often away for extended periods conducting research in the field. Peter attributed Tricia's competency at work at least partially to experiences learned on the home front in balancing her professional with her personal life. How she managed to have sufficient time for their two sons was a mystery to him. El and he had enough problems just taking care of Satchmo.

Tricia was looking at him quizzically. "But I bet you didn't ask for this meeting simply to catch up?"

"No, we've had another development with Azathoth." Peter proceeded to relate the findings from the Flushing apartment. "We desperately need your assistance as profiler. You're already so familiar with the details of the autumn incidents, you're the ideal candidate and Hughes has given it his blessing. I have the paperwork prepared and plan to submit the request today."

Tricia chuckled. "I may have to fight off my fellow analysts to be named, but the BAU should grant it. When I worked with them on developing the Fowler profile, I spoke with my former mentor about Azathoth. For a behavior analyst, his psychological makeup presents an irresistible lure."

"I'm counting on you to smack those others down," Peter said confidently. "No one comes close to your knowledge on Azathoth, and there's no one else I trust as much." He shifted his weight in his chair as he brought up his other reason for seeing Tricia. This was not going to be as clear-cut. "Any news about Garrett Fowler?"

She shook her head. "He's disappeared just like Vincent Adler and Kate Moreau. Fowler's legal status remains the same: wanted for questioning by OPR in connection with the robbery of the Marie Antoinette diamond earrings from the FBI vault. He's technically still an employee of OPR on unpaid suspension. I assume his status will remain unchanged for at least a year. As long as he's considered an employee, OPR has the jurisdiction to prosecute him." Tricia eyed him thoughtfully. "What about Henry? Did you talk with him about it in Hawaii?"

"Henry continues to insist he only made a few inquiries about Fowler and has not done anything else. He claims he hadn't involved any of his relatives and that no one where he works at Winston-Winslow was informed because it was a private matter."

"Do you believe him when he says he's dropped it?"

Peter shrugged. "Based on his past behavior, I'd have to say no. When I was in Hawaii, Henry never asked me about the status of the investigation. That in itself is suspicious."

She nodded. "It's not in his character to give up so easily. But in this case, he has an additional pressure. His father Robert had pursued an off-the-record investigation of Adler. He hoped that by bringing Adler to justice, he could secure the role of CEO in the company. I'm sure Henry doesn't want to give the appearance of following in his murderous footsteps, even if Henry's motives are different." Tricia paused and leaned forward. "Do you think Henry knows that Fowler was seen in Argentina? If he does, he'll connect Fowler to Adler just like we did."

"Henry made no mention of it, but since we were able to uncover it, I wouldn't be at all surprised that he did too. In the past month, Henry's provided himself with cover for overseas travel, both as an employee for Win-Win and as a volunteer." Peter filled her in on Henry's involvement with his company's facial recognition project and his volunteer work with the education through music initiative. "Henry told Neal he's going to Quito, Ecuador this month."

Tricia stopped jotting down notes to look up. "With a side trip to Argentina?"

Peter acknowledged his concern. "This new volunteer project is suspiciously convenient. What I don't understand is why Henry insists on being so secretive about it. Why doesn't he simply go ahead and make it a legitimate case with Win-Win? Adler's enough of a prize, he could justify it even without having a client. Then he could take full advantage of their data mining tools."

"He may intend to. Perhaps he hopes to find evidence that will make it easier to justify an investigation. Through his Ponzi scheme, Adler bilked thousands of wealthy clients out of vast sums of money. It's quite possible one or more would pay for an investigation if they were persuaded there was a real chance of bringing Adler to justice."

"I hope you're right. My gut's telling me that Henry knows that Fowler's working for Adler."

Tricia smiled. "I've learned through long experience never to discount what your gut's telling you."

"But if he attempts something on his own—without backup and resources—and winds up in trouble, there's damned little I'm going to be able to do to help him. Adler's dangerous. Henry could easily wind up over his head—"

"Now you're talking like a dad," Tricia said pointedly, "only Henry's not your kid."

"Yeah, you caught me," Peter admitted. "He's my brother Joe's responsibility now, but Joe doesn't know anything about this."

"After his experiences with Robert, Henry may not be willing to have any father figure in his life. He's an adult and you're going to have to trust he's learned from his past mistakes and will be cautious. Henry may not feel that he's in a strong enough position to push for making the case official. He's only been back at work for a little over a month after a prolonged absence. And given what's happened in the past, he may be concerned that Win-Win would view this as him replacing one obsession with another. But I'm confident that if he believes he can justify it, he'll make it official." Tricia paused and considered for a moment. "Peter, my best advice is not to push him. We know his heart's in the right place. And Neal's too smart for Henry to keep this a secret from him for long if he has decided to pursue it. He's going to want to tell Neal himself rather than being caught in the act."

"Everything you said makes sense, but this situation is doubly frustrating for me because the Bureau is limited in what it can do with Adler. He's already made two attempts that we know of to persuade Neal to work for him, first through Kate last spring and now through Fowler's frame attempt. But as long as Adler stays overseas, he's out of our jurisdiction. Win-Win's data mining skills would be invaluable in tracking Adler's movements." Peter stopped and chose his next words carefully. He didn't want to make it sound too personal, even if it was. "Adler's biding his time, but he hasn't given up. Next time I'll be ready for it. And if Henry wants to help on that front, I welcome it." He exhaled. It was good to get that off his chest, and Tricia provided a sympathetic ear.

Tricia cocked her head and studied him. "You haven't mentioned any of this to El, have you?"

Peter laughed sheepishly. "You know me too well. El's very close to Henry's mom, Noelle. I don't want to place her in a position of having to keep secrets."

"Well, you're welcome to come here anytime to vent. I may be doing the same with you. Being on separate teams brings an unexpected dividend. We can use each other as sounding boards for our frustrations."

"You, frustrated? You always seem on top of everything. Frankly, I'm in awe of how you manage it."

"Fooled you, did I?" she said with a grin. "I've developed hiding my frazzled nerves to a fine art. Actually it's getting easier now that the kids are older and after-school activities aren't such a challenge. I plan to take advantage of the FBI's new flex plan schedule to work the earlier seven to four shift. That'll start next month."

"You won't be alone. I know Neal will opt for the early shift too. Our current hours make it difficult for him to get to his classes on time. He came in early today, hoping he could leave early for a class visit to an auction house." Peter chuckled. "He's kept his nose to the grindstone all morning on his paperwork. As if I'd be hardhearted enough to deny his request."

Tricia smiled as she pointed out, "You may be sorry when he switches to the early schedule. His paperwork output may suffer."

"You should have seen his face when I reminded him he was scheduled to attend a mandatory ethics presentation this afternoon. I let him hang for a couple of minutes before relenting with grave managerial reluctance."

"He'll be so grateful, you'll be rolling in completed paperwork for a week."

They concluded their meeting with Tricia promising to notify Peter as soon as she received clearance to work on Azathoth. Peter left, more hopeful than ever that he'd put together the right team to bring Azathoth to justice. The next time he—or she—struck, they'd be ready.

 **Weatherby's Auction House, Upper East Side. January 19, 2005. Wednesday evening.**

When Neal arrived at Weatherby's, Fiona was standing at the entrance waiting to greet him. "I was beginning to worry you weren't going to be able to make it. Peter let you leave early from work, after all? Thank you, Peter, wherever you are."

"He let me duck out on an ethics presentation," Neal said, catching his breath after his dash up Madison Avenue from the subway stop. "I have to sit through the recording of the entire session tomorrow, but it's worth it. Am I late?"

"No, Sherkov only arrived a few minutes ahead of you. You'll have to come back during business hours sometime so I can give you a full tour."

"I'd like that. We'll combine it with lunch. This is perfect weather for a curry."

Fiona led him to the main gallery. "You're on. My favorite Indian restaurant is only a couple of blocks away. In the evening they have live sitar music."

They joined Sherkov and the rest of the class in the main auction gallery. Weatherby's was one of the preeminent auction houses in New York. Within the patrician mansion were five floors of exhibit halls and auction spaces. The main gallery resembled an exhibit hall at the Met, with high ceilings and partitions to display art works. After Neal and Fiona joined the others, Sherkov led a short discussion of the Italian Renaissance works scheduled to be auctioned. Afterwards, the students were free to study the other works.

Neal headed straight for the Corot. The small painting had already been hung and was displayed prominently on a wall by itself. _The Dreamer at the Fountain_ had been painted during Corot's late period. He'd used a palette of somber grays and muted greens for the background, colors which cast the young Bohemian dreamer in sharp relief. Her head in the shadows, she rested her chin on one hand while her other arm was extended in a languid gesture to the fountain. The mood was one of melancholy, overlaid with a veil of sensuality. The rich umber and Venetian red of the dreamer's skirt and apron made a sharp contrast to the muted tonal range of the rest of the painting. Neal stood in front of the painting and cleared his mind of any extraneous thoughts, absorbing the paints, the textures, and the technique.

Corot was known for his aversion to bright colors, and this painting was a testimonial to it. He'd been accused of painting in only one octave in a minor key and knowing only one color—pale gray. Corot in rebuttal had said what he was striving for was a harmony of the tones, not shocking the observer with garish colors. The work was a Chopin nocturne, filled with poetry and lyricism. Or it should be. . . .

"Why are you shaking your head?" Fiona's voice came from behind him, breaking through his reflections.

Without turning around, he said, "It's not right. Corot couldn't have painted this."

A deep voice rumbled behind him. "What leads you to that conclusion?"

Neal spun around. Sherkov and Fiona were both standing behind him, staring not at the painting but at him. "The brushwork. It looks like Corot, but it's not. Corot's technique has a sensuality which you can even detect in the marks of the bristles. This doesn't have a soul …" Neal huffed in frustration. It was difficult to explain how he knew, but he was positive. There had been something off about it when he first looked at it, and the more he studied it, the more wrong it appeared. There was no question the painting was a forgery.

He pulled out a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket. He'd picked up that Boy Scout trick from Peter at Christmas time and this was his first opportunity to impress someone with how prepared he was. "May I?" he asked Fiona, nodding at the painting.

She looked concerned but nodded her assent.

Neal took the painting off the wall and turned it over to examine the canvas visible on the back. Sherkov and Fiona got close and peered over his shoulder. There were some faint stamps on the canvas, standard marks used to indicate previous owners and sales. Neal quickly surveyed the stamps and drew their attention to one in particular.

"That's the stamp of a Parisian colorman named Paul Contet. He prepared canvases around the turn of the century for some of the leading artists of the time, including Pissarro. He began using this stamp when his shop opened up in 1886. This work has been documented to have been painted sometime between 1855 and 1863. Corot died in 1875." Neal glanced at Fiona and winced. "You see the problem. It's simply not possible that Corot used a canvas which had been prepared by Contet. If I were you, I'd want to get this painting reexamined."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: I've taken dramatic liberty with Corot's painting, The Dreamer at the Fountain, but the actual history of the painting also includes a mystery. In 1972 it was stolen from the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts and so far has not been recovered. The squirrel at the beginning of the chapter is a nod to the squirrel in the antique shop in the season 2 episode "Point Blank."_

 _The mention of how Angela became interested in the hammered dulcimer is a teaser for a future chapter in Caffrey Disclosure which Penna Nomen is currently posting. I've pinned recordings of the hammered dulcimer and tin whistle, as well as the Corot painting and other visuals to our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest board._

 _Thanks for reading and to Penna Nomen for her beta wisdom. Next week in Chapter 3: Out of the Shadows, Mozzie approaches Neal with a plea for help and Neal hears about the Dutchman for the first time._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	3. Out from the Shadows

**Chapter 3: Out from the Shadows**

 **Neal's loft. January 19, 2005. Wednesday evening.**

It was close to ten o'clock at night by the time Neal returned to the loft. He'd stayed late at Weatherby's to document his suspicions and then raced to Columbia, arriving barely in time for his evening art workshops. That was a mistake. This was the first evening of the new semester for art critiques, and Professor Stockman plainly had replenished her arsenal of flaming arrows over the holiday. Neal's works had not been spared. By the time she left his studio, several of what he considered to be his best works bore the scorch marks of her criticism. If Neal hadn't been so rushed in getting back, he might have been better prepared to defend them. As it was, all his brilliant repartees didn't occur to him until thirty minutes after she'd left. Neal felt drained. A glass of wine, a little reading, then bed.

Ah, fond delusions.

He opened the door to find Mozzie had taken possession of his dining table and covered it with books and diagrams. He was typing at a frenzied pace on his laptop when Neal entered. An opened bottle of wine was next to him, with most of the contents gone. Mozzie really did need his own office.

"Mozz?"

He didn't look up from his laptop. "Pull up a chair," he ordered. "I need your help. We may be up all night."

Neal groaned. "No, not tonight. Can't this wait?"

Mozzie paused typing to glare at him over his glasses with bloodshot eyes. "Oh sure, go right ahead and fiddle while Rome burns. What's one more species lost to mankind? As the lehua flower dies on the tree, slumber away, oh you—"

Neal interrupted his rant. "Calm down, Mozzie. Forgive my ignorance." He sighed and sat down at the table. Might as well pour himself a glass of wine. This was going to take a while. Gloomily Neal regarded the wine Mozzie had appropriated: a velvety Merlot with blackberry overtones he'd been saving to have with Fiona. In addition to his own office, Mozzie also needed to start drinking his own wine. "Which conspiracy are we talking about?"

" _Bzzz_. Ring a bell?" Visibly irritated, Mozzie shook his head in displeasure. "How could you forget?"

Neal held up a hand. "Trust me, it's always on my mind. Not even if I wanted to, would you ever let me overlook it." Ever since Mozzie had discovered his passion for bees—a seismic event comparable to being struck by one of Jupiter's thunderbolts on top of Mount Olympus— he'd made sure that Neal was fully informed every step of the way. Last month Mozzie had gone into partnership with their friend Billy Feng to produce and market products made with Hawaiian organic honey. Billy, a retired cat burglar, owned a Hawaiian-themed store and café called the Aloha Emporium, which was just south of Columbia. Billy's large family in Hawaii supplied them with products based on Billy and Mozzie's specifications.

Neal had fully expected to stay clear of Mozzie's new undertaking, but that was not meant to be. First he had been roped into doing some paintings for the café, then he was tasked with designing wine labels and critiquing blends for the new collection of honey wines.

Mozzie rarely paced, but he did so now. "We're on the cusp of tremendous success. Last week we held several wine tastings and since then have been deluged with advance orders. I've been staying up late every night to process them." Neal studied his friend, and he was looking more than normally frazzled. That must be the cause of his agitation which even by Mozzie's standards was extreme. Neal put aside thoughts of the Corot forgery and Azathoth to focus on the crisis in front of him.

"Doesn't Billy have someone to help with the paperwork?"

"Up to now he hadn't felt the need for one, but with all the additional honey products we're carrying—did I mention we've added a line of organic honey-based cosmetics—it's overwhelming."

"You're into cosmetics now, too?"

"Honey-based face creams, toners, regenerating serums. . . . " Mozzie sat down opposite Neal at the dining table. Placing his elbows on the table, he started wringing his hands. The way he was abusing them, Mozzie was going to need honey-based hand lotion afterwards. "Our honey business is in a crisis from too much success, but it's nothing compared to the global catastrophe confronting us."

"Simmer down, Mozzie. Whatever it is can't be that dire."

"You tell me. Yesterday I discovered a major impasse when I was researching the fractal significance of honeycombs—our native bees are rapidly going extinct." His emotions getting the better of him, Mozzie's voice had turned into a squeak. "Our Hawaiian yellow-faced bees are under attack!"

Neal had never heard of the yellow-faced bee although it did sound like a B-grade movie: _Godzilla vs. Yellow-faced Bee_ or perhaps _Monkey King and Yellow-faced Bee Travel to the West_. _Fists of Fury V: Enter the Yellow-faced Bee_ sounded like one Mozzie had made him watch once.

Mozzie reached over and tapped him sharply on the shoulder. "Are you listening to me? The yellow-faced bee's habitat is being threatened by evil developer-warlords, rampaging hogs, and other lackeys of the Dark Lord. It's up to us to save them!"

Add one more to the list: _Star Wars VII: Revenge of the Yellow-faced Bee_. "Oooo-kay. How do you intend to save them?"

"We, Neal." Mozzie shook a disapproving finger at him. "This is a joint effort. _We_ intend to engage in a blitzkrieg of press releases. Enlightenment of the masses to join our cause will be our most effective weapon. In addition I have taken it upon myself to be the yellow-faced bee's champion, encouraging them to breed and reproduce." He pointed to a stack of printouts. "I've been studying mating techniques, which, and I know you'll find this fascinating, are another example of fractals in nature …"

Neal began to see a silver lining in Mozzie's obsession. Last month Mozzie, much to Neal's consternation, had taken it upon himself to be Neal's love guru. That was before he met Janet Dodson, a friend of El's who was a costume designer and had helped the FBI on several occasions. Mozzie had immediately been smitten by Cupid's arrow. Janet had been equally taken with him, admiring his originality and distinctive attire. They were well suited for each other. Janet was into environmental causes and liked to use the natural world as inspiration for her designs. Mozzie was always railing against big corporations and how they were destroying the earth. They spoke each other's language.

Mozzie had offered to supply honey wine for the opening reception of Janet's latest exhibition of costumes as art and had earned major appreciation points from Janet in the process. The yellow-faced bee could be the extra push which would set Neal free. "Mozzie, I know what you're going to ask. You're so generous of spirit you've been wracked with guilt over asking me to cope without your expert guidance as love guru, but for the sake of the yellow-faced bee, I'm willing to make that sacrifice. Theirs is a higher need. I give you my blessing. And now I'm heading for bed."

"Wait, you're attending Janet's reception on Saturday, aren't you?"

"Sure, why?" Janet's theme for the exhibition was insects. Were those looming storm clouds of rampaging bees on the horizon?

"I plan to launch my campaign to save the yellow-faced bee at the reception. I need a poster and also graphics for the flyer. You don't have anything else to do tonight, do you?"

Neal could feel his eyes widening as he confronted the enormity of the task Mozzie was proposing. "Couldn't this wait? Maybe tomorrow?"

"But I need to have the graphics ready tomorrow morning in order to have time to reproduce them in sufficient quantities."

Neal wavered. Tomorrow wouldn't have worked for him either. He had a full day of work and classes ahead. Mozzie's eyes behind his glasses were pleading with the look Mozz knew he couldn't deny. Mozzie was always there for him. What was one night of lost sleep? "Put the coffee on. Do you have a photo of the bee?"

"Of course. This won't be that difficult. After all the art you prepared for Billy's café, you could use the same style and just add the bee."

Having resigned himself to the inevitable, Neal pumped Mozzie for details as he got out his paints. When he finally got to bed, it was after four o'clock. If he dreamed of giant yellow-faced bees buzzing around the spire of the Chrysler Building, it was perhaps understandable.

 **White Collar Division. January 20, 2005. Thursday morning**.

Peter arrived at work on Thursday to find Neal already waiting to speak with him. He'd assumed the subject would be Azathoth, but instead Neal had burst into the office to talk about a painting he'd found at the auction house the previous evening. "You're convinced the painting is a forgery?" Peter sat back in his chair, reluctant to accept Neal's claim.

After the past few months of having Neal report everything from stolen Fabergé eggs to bank heists, Peter had grown to accept the fact that his consultant was a crime magnet. But this time, Neal's appearance was not of the kind to inspire confidence. As he paced in front of his desk, the normal spring in his step was more like a shuffle and he had dark shadows under his eyes. Had he slept at all last night? Were the revelations about Azathoth having stalked them and perhaps continuing to do so stressing Neal to the point he was seeing forgeries wherever he went?

"That's right, Peter. I'm sure of it. I talked with Fiona this morning. The painting's being examined by experts at the Met today, and there's no question but they'll confirm it."

"How were you able to make such a quick pronouncement? You told them it was a forgery even before you'd examined the back of the canvas."

"Corot is perhaps the most forged artist of all time." Neal stopped pacing and sat down in the chair in front of Peter's desk. He clearly knew he was going to have to provide a better explanation. Taking a breath, Neal said, "Corot is someone Klaus Mansfeld had me study in order to refine my skills. He believed that by making me analyze where the others went wrong, my own forgeries would be even stronger. In the process I wound up with an in-depth knowledge of Corot."

Peter knew that when Neal had been a member of Mansfeld's crew in Europe, he had perfected his forgery technique, but this was the first time Neal had divulged any of the details. It was a mark of how far his relationship with Peter had come, that he was willing to disclose anything from that period in his life.

"But it's more than that." Neal hesitated. "When I first learned to paint, my aim was to morph into the artist, in a sense to become the artist of whatever work I was studying. I still remember how I felt when I saw my first Van Gogh. I didn't just admire it. I wanted to be one with Van Gogh, to paint with his hand, to see with his eye. It took years but I finally started to get the hang of it. If you focus enough, the distinctions between you and the artist melt. It's like your souls connect." He gave a small, embarrassed laugh. "You're gonna think I'm crazy now."

Peter shook his head. "No, I think I understand, at least _what_ you're trying to achieve, if not _how_. It's why you're such a great con artist. You can slip into other identities better than anyone I know. So you're saying this painting lacked Corot's soul."

Neal nodded eagerly. "Exactly. It was an empty shell, with nothing of the artist inside."

"All right, let's assume for the moment this is a forgery. What can you tell me about who painted it?"

"His brushwork is excellent. Without special equipment, I can't tell for certain, but the aging process was good enough to pass visual inspection. Where it comes up short is in its expressiveness. Corot's works have a sensuality this painting lacks. The subject should evoke understated passion, but instead there's a coldness about it that reeks of forgery."

What Neal was saying was tantalizing. It raised the possibility of … Leaning forward, Peter pressed him harder. "How high was the quality of the forgery? Excluding yourself, do you know of many who could achieve it?"

"Corot's not difficult to forge, but even so this is an excellent forgery." Neal shrugged. "There aren't very many known forgers, but who knows how many there are who simply haven't been caught yet."

"Any chance it could be the Dutchman?"

Neal shot him a puzzled look. "Dutchman? Who do you call the Dutchman?"

"You haven't run across him in the files yet? That's my nickname for an expert art forger and counterfeiter. Like Azathoth, we don't have an identity for him, but we've been on his trail for years. Jones initially put him on my radar. He'd studied a profile similar to his at Quantico. Based on a tentative profile we've built up for him, we've targeted several forgeries and counterfeits to be his." Peter settled back in his chair. "I must admit, when you first burst on the scene, I wondered if you weren't the Dutchman. But if all the works we attribute to him are correct, you would have been a criminal starting at ten, and I don't think you were quite that far along then." Peter paused. "You weren't, were you?"

Neal grinned. "Not quite, but I'm flattered."

"After all, you stole a car when you were three. I needed to check."

Neal had visibly relaxed at the mention of his childhood escapade. "I could look over the list of the Dutchman's suspected crimes. See if any of them strikes a chord. Why do you call him the Dutchman? Is he known mainly for his forgeries of Flemish paintings?"

"No, he's like a ghost. Disappears into the night."

"The Flying Dutchman, huh? Very poetic, Peter. I'm impressed. Maybe a little jealous."

"No reason to be. James Bonds isn't bad either. Has more panache."

He chuckled. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I hope you're not feeling nostalgic for the good old days?"

"No, but it's a little unsettling to chase someone who has many of my characteristics. It's like I'm chasing a different me."

"That may make you the best one to catch him."

A smile spread over Neal's face at the idea. He was clearly intrigued by the Dutchman. "Where are his forgeries stored?"

"Art Crimes in D.C. has them."

"Any chance I could see them? I might be able to find a common thread."

"That may prove difficult. They consider this their turf, but I'll call Kramer. They've been sitting on them for years with nothing to show for it. It's time for a fresh approach."

Neal picked up a pen on Peter's desk and began twirling it idly between his fingers. "What's particularly troubling about this case is how a Sterling-Bosch expert could have authenticated it. I would have thought their experts were better than this."

"It's my understanding this goes on all the time where paintings are reclassified as either forgeries or genuine."

"You're right." Despite his words, Neal shook his head, still troubled. "In this case, however, the colorman's stamp provided clear evidence. I would have thought any expert worth his salt would have noticed it right away."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After leaving Peter's office, Neal retrieved the file and settled down to acquaint himself with the Dutchman. Anyone who interested Peter so much was worth studying. No need to ask Peter where the file was. Thanks to his constant insistence on practice, Neal had an intimate acquaintance with the file room. The list of forgeries the Dutchman had been suspected of went back for fifteen years. Often the works had been linked to him simply because of the high quality of the forgery. In several cases the forgeries would have escaped detection except for a fluke discovery. It made Neal wonder if the Dutchman ever signed his works. That's what he'd done for the Atlantic bonds he'd forged. Later on, Neal had learned to resist that nod to vanity. Less chance of discovery. How prudent was the Dutchman? The resolution of the documentary photos was not high enough to permit examination. In any case it might take filtered or polarized light to read a hidden signature. This was a case that had eluded Peter for years. Neal would love to bring it home for him.

His phone rang. It was Fiona, calling to let him know about the Met's evaluation. After talking with her, Neal headed back upstairs and knocked on Peter's door. "Got a minute?"

"Sure," Peter said, turning away from his computer. "You hear something?"

"Fiona called." Neal dropped into a chair and buffed his fingernails on his jacket lapel. "The Met experts agree with me. It's a forgery. They're going to deliver it to us tomorrow. The Met didn't take the time for a detailed analysis. Once they found the stamp they confirmed it a forgery and passed it on to us." He hesitated. "Could we hold off sending it to Art Crimes? I'd like to examine it further. Try to determine when the forgery was made. See if I can come up with any hidden signatures or other clues."

"Since this is a local case, I expect Kramer will go along. I'll give him a call this afternoon." Peter nodded with satisfaction. "Score one for your artist mind meld. How is Weatherby's taking it?"

"Hard," Neal said, "but they were grateful it was discovered before it went on display. They've already been on the phone to Sterling-Bosch. You can imagine how that went. Sterling-Bosch was responsible for the original authentication. Fiona told me that Sara's taking the red eye from London to do damage control." No need to explain who Sara was. Peter had met her last spring and was familiar with her work at Sterling-Bosch. He also knew Neal had been interested in dating her. Neal had confided how a combination of Sara being transferred to London and starting to date Bryan McKenzie, a fellow investigator who Neal nicknamed Sighin' Bryan, had put a stop to any thought of romance. "Sara's a sharp investigator, but she'll have her work cut out for her on this case." Neal suppressed a yawn and got up to leave.

Peter looked at him sharply and raised his hand to stop him. "Before you go, I need to ask . . . The business about the photos, the surveillance on us, you're not letting Azathoth get to you, are you?"

Flummoxed, Neal stared at him. "No, why would you say that?"

"You've been dragging around here all day. You look like you didn't sleep at all last night."

Neal gave a small chuckle. "Trust me, it wasn't Azathoth keeping me up, but yellow-faced bees."

"Yellow-faced bees? Don't you mean yellow jackets? What, do you have some sort of infestation? In winter? That hardly seems likely."

Neal grinned as he nodded knowingly at Peter.

"Oh, that kind of infestation. Mozzie." Peter shook his head ruefully. "I should have known."

"Oh yeah, he had me making graphics for his yellow-faced bee campaign most of the night. Sorry about the yawns. I'll lock my door tonight."

"Glad it wasn't Azathoth haunting your dreams, but I haven't heard anything about yellow-faced bees."

"I assume you and El are going to the reception for Janet's exhibition."

"Of course."

"Consider yourself warned. You soon will."

 **Columbia University. January 20, 2005. Thursday evening**.

Thursday evening was the first official meeting of the AFO study group. AFO, standing for _All for One_ , was the code term Richard and Aidan had coined when they helped Neal clear his name last fall. After Fowler had tried to frame Neal for the theft of a pair of diamond earrings from the FBI vault, Aidan and Richard had volunteered to be on his crew. Aidan, the captain of the fencing club, had dubbed them the Three Musketeers and adopted their motto. He and Neal had first met through fencing and Richard was a willing recruit both for the fencing team and the work of the Musketeers. This semester when they decided to each take a course out of their comfort zone, they made a pact to support each other. The problem was Richard's course was out of the box for all three of them. It was a case of the blind leading the blind.

By the end of Thursday evening they'd all taken their first class, and it was time to assess. Neal and Richard were the first to arrive at Watson Hall where they had their art studios and had staked out their claim to one of the sectional conversation nooks in the student lounge. They'd grabbed a couple of coffees on the way over.

Richard took the lid off his cup. "I feel like we should include Travis in this group. He's the one who got me into this course. He needs to see my pain now."

Neal breathed in the aroma of his coffee. He'd just had his first session of computational art and felt like he was on life support. He'd selected a Sumatra blend at the coffee hut and was counting on its earthy, spicy flavor to resuscitate him. "Good idea. Travis would certainly be a help with my course. We could meet before band rehearsals on Sunday at Prentis Hall and make it easier for him to join us."

"I've worked with paints all my life. I wasn't expecting this to be such a challenge," Richard said with a groan. "Applying makeup is a totally different skill set. The professor's barely taking time to talk about it so we can spend more time on casts and mold making, but I'm stuck on first base. He assumes we already have a basic understanding of makeup. I should have had a sister and then at least I would have grown up around the stuff."

Richard's frustration was bubbling over as he stared gloomily into his coffee. It reminded Neal of how last week Angela had been likewise venting at him. She'd arrived early to acclimate herself to life in New York before classes started. That had turned out to be a mistake as very few of the other students had arrived and she'd wound up feeling lonely and out of place. Neal had been busy with work and finishing the paintings for Billy so he hadn't been able to spend much time with her. He'd tried to persuade her to hang out at the Aloha Emporium while he painted but she resisted, claiming she'd be a third wheel. Perhaps two frustrated souls could help each other. "Do you want me to ask my cousin Angela to give you a crash course? She excels at makeup. The goth looks she creates for her performances are very professional."

"She wouldn't mind?" His face brightening, he looked like Neal had just tossed him a life preserver. "Everyone else in my class already has a lot of experience with makeup. Some have even worked on theatrical makeup. I think I'm the only one who's a novice."

"You start without me?" Aidan had walked up, coffee in hand. Dumping his backpack beside him, he sprawled onto a sectional.

Aidan had attended his first class on Japanese art that evening. Neal eyed his cup questioningly. "What, you're not drinking green tea?"

Aidan winced. "I need major infusions of caffeine after what I sat through."

Richard grinned knowingly. "Feeling expanded?"

"I'm feeling as bloated as a Japanese pufferfish," said Aidan with a huff. "Seems like at least half of the class speak Japanese. The professor has no sympathy for me at all. He's from Kansas. Appeared to be delighted at my abysmal ignorance. Claims I present him with a good challenge."

Neal laughed. "Perfect. I can tell already you're going to need long tutoring sessions with Keiko. You may thank us at any time. It would have been nice if you'd been as kind with me."

"What do you mean?" Aidan said, looking astonished. "Your course is fantastic. I read through the synopsis and wished I'd been able to take it when I was getting started."

"I was thinking it'd be a lot less computer and a lot more art. Hah. Our first topic is fractals and 'other recursive figures', whatever that means." Neal pointed an accusing finger at Aidan. "This is your fault. I'm counting on you not to let me fail my first course."

Aidan waved off his complaint. "Hey, count me weird but I think fractals rock. I've been using them in my media art. Tell you what, there's an exhibit of fractal photography opening on Saturday. We should all go, you too, Richard. We're in this together. AFO."

"I agree in principle," said Richard. "And for that reason, both of you need to meet me at Prentis to help with my makeup."

Aidan burst out laughing. "You do know how that sounds, right?"

Richard rolled his eyes. "Please, no jokes. I've already heard them all. From now on, I'm calling it SFX. Sounds much cooler. I have to work on my first transformation, and Neal's going to be my model."

"Hey, I didn't say anything about being —"

Richard froze him in mid-sentence. "AFO, remember?"

"Can't argue with that." Although he might have liked to. Being a guinea pig for a makeup—correction, SFX— session with Angela and Richard was not high up on his list of pleasurable activities. It wasn't Richard he was worried about. Ever since Sara had tricked him into letting her dye his hair, Neal had learned to proceed with caution when it came to skin and hair preparations. He made a vow to check Angela's purse for any contraband products like hair dyes before allowing her to do any work. But no need to spook Richard about that just yet. "I'll ask Angela. See if she can join us on Sunday."

They agreed to meet at four o'clock before band rehearsal. Neal had suggested meeting later to limit the amount of damage that could be done, but Richard wanted to make sure he had enough time to take advantage of Angela's expertise. Neal hoped he wasn't going to regret having made the offer.

Aidan took a draught of his coffee. "Keiko and I were planning to go to the exhibit on Saturday. It's opening night but that's really the only evening we have free to attend."

"I may be able to go," Neal said, "but I'd already promised to attend another one being held in SoHo. Where's the one you're talking about?"

"It's also in SoHo, at the Cecile Gallery. It's called 'The Insect Perspective.' "

Janet's exhibition? Mozzie had mentioned a photographer was also presenting. Aidan and Richard had met Mozzie in November under the alias of Athos. Even without the wig of long flowing locks and wide-brimmed hat he'd worn as Athos, they'd have no trouble in recognizing him. Since Mozzie was going to be at the exhibit, Neal felt he should prepare them. "That exhibit features not only photography but also costumes, and I know the costume designer who's exhibiting. Not only that—do you remember Athos from November?"

Richard chuckled. "That flamboyant man of mystery? Who could forget? I've missed seeing him."

"Athos is operating on another mission these days. He's working undercover as Dante Haversham. Goes by the nickname of Mozzie."

"Dante, Mozzie . . ." Aidan snorted. "How many nicknames does the guy have?"

Neal shrugged. "I've never counted them all, and I probably only know a few of them. Just to warn you, he may look a little different from when you last saw him. There's an opening reception at six for an hour before the doors open to the public. I could get you in."

"That should work," Richard said. "Okay if I bring Travis? We'd already made plans to go to a jazz club in the evening. It's in the Village. We could stop off at the exhibit first."

Mozzie had already met Travis and even grudgingly respected him. He could talk to him about the yellow-faced bee. On the other hand, Travis was a suit in Mozzie's eyes. Upcoming trauma on the horizon? Mozzie was a self-proclaimed man of the shadows, a ghost. His infatuation with Janet and now his mission to promote the yellow-faced bee were combining to thrust him onto center stage. Could he handle the spotlight without melting into a puddle of terror-induced paranoia? As they made their plans, Neal debated whether he should warn Mozzie. After the previous night, his first inclination was to let the champion of the yellow-faced bee be surprised. But Mozzie was fond of saying he much preferred a scavenger hunt to a surprise party. If he were going to emerge from the shadows, he needed advance notice to prepare . . . and an extra supply of honey wine on hand in case resolution faltered.

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: I've tossed in several references to stories by Penna Nomen in this chapter. Neal's adventure as a three year old car thief is from Caffrey Envoy, his epiphany when he saw his first Van Gogh was in By the Book, and his misadventure with hair dye was in Caffrey Disclosure._

 _Thanks to Penna Nomen for keeping me from slipping off the rails and to you for reading and your comments! Next week in Chapter 4: Triage Girl, Sara pays a visit to White Collar as the mystery concerning the forgery deepens._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	4. Triage Girl

**Chapter 4: Triage Girl**

 **Federal Building. January 21, 2005. Friday morning**.

Neal woke up early on Friday morning, eager to begin work on the Corot forgery. He was the first to arrive in the bullpen and, tossing his fedora on the bust of Socrates on his desk, he headed straight for the niche. As he walked, he repeated it in several different languages: _la niche, el nicho, nisha, die Nische, la nicchia._ He liked the way it rolled off his tongue. It was a matter of great satisfaction that his niche was becoming almost as accepted a designation as the bullpen or Peter's office. He'd even heard Jones say, "Meet you in the niche."

During Neal's first year at the Bureau, whenever he wanted to work in the lab he'd have to borrow someone else's workstation. In the beginning that hadn't posed a problem since none of his cases involved extensive lab work. But during the fall, he was called upon more and more to perform authentications. Having zero space to stow his supplies had become a growing annoyance. Solution? Turn it into a game of bartering favors for shelf space.

He'd already discovered his doodles and drawings had attracted a large following, and in exchange for a few sketches he quickly amassed assorted shelves and cubbyholes throughout the lab. His FBI cartoons were particularly popular—he'd been able to acquire a brand new graphics tablet for one cartoon of the bullpen. But his success had led to another problem—a ridiculous amount of time had to be spent collecting his supplies from the various storage spots before he could get any work accomplished. And he was still confronted with the challenge of finding a vacant workstation. Often he'd gone into the lab only to have to postpone his work because the techies had already snatched up all the available spaces. A permanent solution was imperative.

The campaign for a niche started in November when Neal pleaded his case to Peter, pointing out he'd been hired to consult but wasn't being providing with the means to do his job. Peter had then acquainted him with the ponderous and prehistoric procedures of office space allocation. It wasn't until late December that his request had finally cleared all the red tape hurdles with the proviso that all equipment was to be shared and any purchases had to be justified on the basis of non-art investigations. The White Collar budget had zero money allocated for art authentication which was considered to be the exclusive domain of the D.C. Art Crimes Unit. Changing that attitude had become Neal's new mission.

Upon his return from Hawaii, Neal staked out his claim to a far corner of the lab which had primarily been used for storage. For him that was what made it prime real estate. It already had the required shelving space. He was able to collect his supplies and gear from their various hiding places and group them in one location. Travis helped him scrounge a surplus computer and two excellent monitors. Between Travis's tech consults and Neal's sketches they were able to acquire more than enough equipment. His niche was born.

Much more than his desk in the bullpen, this was Neal's personal space. He had a magnetic board where he posted a few of his drawings, and that had become almost as popular with White Collar staff as the bulletin board in the break room. Recently he'd added his copy of _Head of a Muse_ by Raphael to his board. That one might need to stay a while.

Neal planned to spend the day in his niche, studying _The Dreamer_. The painting was already confirmed to be a forgery but that only served to make it more of an enigma. When had she been painted? Had the forger left any clue to his identity? Was he brazen enough to sign it like Neal had on the Atlantic bonds?

The painting wasn't large—only 25 by 17 inches—and he was able to prop it up in front of his monitor. Before starting the digital analysis, Neal first wanted to get better acquainted. After all, they'd only met two days ago. He checked around to verify no one else was nearby—no need to open himself up to ridicule—and opened up a conversation. Who was she? Who had she been with? He relaxed his eyes to let the image blur. That might seem paradoxical but if she were slightly out-of-focus, details emerged from the painting that he might otherwise have missed. Neal must have spent at least a half-hour just staring at her. Lab guys came and left. He was vaguely aware of activity around him but paid no attention to it.

Then he started the light analysis, using filters to shine different spectral frequencies at her. As he worked, he gained an appreciation of the brushwork technique of whoever had painted her. One of the challenges with the painting was that it had been lost so long ago that there was no high-resolution reproduction of the original to compare it with. True, they had the accounts of several art critics from the same era who described the painting in minute detail. And luckily color photographs had been taken in 1915 shortly before its disappearance. Color photography was in its infancy then with the Autochrome system the only means of rendering colors. The color values for the Autochrome of _The Dreamer_ when compared with the text descriptions appeared to be a faithful rendering, but the hazy appearance of the photo revealed little of the original brush technique.

At 10:30 Neal called a time out. He'd become bleary-eyed from too much painting-staring. He turned off his equipment and wandered out into the break room, refilling his mug with FBI swill. The break room was empty at this hour. No one to talk to, but that may have been for the best. He was still conducting an internal conversation with _The Dreamer_. Taking his mug with him, Neal returned to his desk in the bullpen to catch up on emails before going back to the lab. Standard announcements. An evaluation request for the ethics presentation he'd sat through yesterday. He decided to go ahead and fill it out before returning to the niche. Neal scanned through the options given for overall impression. Jeez, snoozefest wasn't listed. Simply thinking about it made his eyes close. He decided to add snoozefest in the additional comments section along with a few apt comparisons.

Peter strolled over as he was finishing his comments. Quickly deleting what he'd just written he turned to face Peter.

"I came by to see you earlier," Peter said, "but you were so focused on the painting, I didn't want to disturb you."

Neal shrugged. "I know what you're wondering and I don't have any answers yet. No hidden signatures that I've discovered. If I had one of the Dutchman's other works to compare it to, I might find something. I can tell you I've developed an intimate appreciation of his brushwork, but that doesn't help identify who the brushwork belongs to. I'm going to tackle a spectroscopic analysis next. If the forger were careless enough to use that stamp, he may also have been sloppy with his pigments, and I'll be able to date the forgery."

"You have a few more hours to work. At two o'clock join us in the conference room. Jones and Diana have been researching the man who discovered the painting and will report their findings. We also have a guest participant."

Something in Peter's smile made Neal wary. "Anyone I know?"

Peter pursed his lips and nodded. "That's a safe assumption. Sara Ellis. Since she's serving as Sterling-Bosch's liaison to Weatherby's, she's asked to consult with us. No doubt she'll also want to talk with you about the painting. I assume that's not a problem?"

Neal shook his head. "Two professionals working together, what could go wrong? I'll enjoy seeing her in action."

"Good," Peter said, clapping him on the shoulder. "She may be working closely with us. I don't want there to be any friction." He paused and pointed his forefinger accusingly at Neal. "No 'Sighin' Bryan' in Sara's presence."

Peter knew him too well. "I'll control myself. Actually, I saw Sara a couple of times in December. Turns out she's friends with Fiona. I even met Bryan and although I wasn't sighing over him, I behaved myself admirably. You have nothing to fear."

"Glad to hear you can handle this as a mature adult." Peter strode off with a satisfied expression on his face. Neal permitted himself the hint of a smile. Just because he couldn't tease her about Bryan, didn't mean other subjects were off limits. What would Diana make of her? Would the two of them spar at each other or would they both gang up on him? Either way could be entertaining.

Neal returned to his niche to work on the painting with renewed enthusiasm. An idea occurred to him on the way back. If it worked, he could make the announcement at the meeting.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Midday, Neal bid au revoir to _The Dreamer_ and left to grab a sandwich. Originally he'd planned to work through lunch, but now there was no need. _The Dreamer_ had divulged one of her secrets and Neal could relax while waiting to reveal it at the meeting. He reviewed his options for lunch. Normally the cafeteria in the basement was a place he frequented only under the most dire of circumstances, but the frigid conditions outside warranted extreme measures. That was the problem with spending Christmas in Hawaii. Since his return he was more sensitive than ever to the cold. Unlike Peter the Polar Bear, winter had never been his favorite season and now it was like he was being punished for taking a modest respite.

Most of the other employees must have had the same idea since the cafeteria resembled intermission at the opera. It looked like every employee in the building had descended to the basement at the same time with long lines at the various food stations. Neal spotted Jones in the sandwich line and went over to join him.

"Too cold to go out, Caffrey?"

"Still dreaming of Hawaii."

"I hear ya. Helen was saying the same thing yesterday about coming back from her hometown of Jacksonville, Florida. I was there over Christmas. It was like being in the tropics."

Neal looked at Jones in surprise. He'd been dating Helen Broussard in the D.A.'s office for a couple of months, but that seemed scarcely long enough to be visiting her parents. "I didn't know you two were that serious."

Jones held up a hand. "Whoa. Don't get ideas. I was in town visiting some buddies at the Naval Air Station there and just stopped by for lunch. Did a little sightseeing afterwards."

"So no wedding bells yet?"

"Hardly. Maybe when I'm as old as Peter's brother."

Neal laughed. "Smart man. Keep your options open."

When they reached the head of the line, Jones picked up a roast beef sub. Neal debated over which sandwich they'd be least likely to ruin and decided on a turkey club. As they walked over to a table, Jones said, "I heard Sara Ellis will be joining us at the meeting this afternoon. Isn't she the one you were dating last fall?"

"We weren't ever dating—the timing was off. But Sara's a friend and she's smart. I'm looking forward to hearing her explanation of what went wrong." Neal was careful in his choice of words to not give away the grand reveal he'd planned. No need to dilute the effect.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At the appointed time for the briefing, all the White Collar participants—Peter, Diana, Jones, and Neal—had gathered in the conference room. Sara, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Jones and Peter were passing the time by discussing the public housing bid-rigging conspiracy case. Fortunately the Corot forgery had allowed Neal to be excused from that exercise in boredom. Pulling out a pen, he got out his notepad and started sketching. He already had the concept in his head. Rendering fog with a pen was tricky, but the effect would work well when he recreated it in watercolors for his board in the niche. . . .

Diana leaned over to take a look. "What's that you're drawing?"

"A ghost ship emerging from the fog," he replied, pausing to scrutinize it.

Peter looked up at his words. "The Dutchman's taken hold of you too, I see."

"This time's going to be different, Peter. We won't let him disappear." Neal turned to Diana. "Have you heard of the Dutchman?"

"Jones, why don't you fill Diana in?" Peter suggested. "You did the original research on him."

A knock on the door announcing Sara's arrival interrupted Jones's remarks. Apologizing for her lateness, Sara added, "You know how it is with jet lag. I seem to be perpetually out of phase today." Under other circumstances Neal might have joshed her about it, but she was already looking frayed and he settled for a sympathetic smile. All teasing was on hold.

Peter introduced her to the others and asked Jones and Diana to fill them in on the background of the seller.

Jones projected the photo of a middle-aged man on the wall monitor. Heavyset, his hair thinning on top, he reminded Neal of Tony Soprano on _The Sopranos._ "This is Artie Klossner," Jones said. "Plumbing contractor. Lives in Newark. Three children, ranging between twelve and seventeen in age. Klossner had taken the painting to an art dealer in Newark in November, claiming not to know who'd painted it. Said it had been brought over by his father when he immigrated from Germany. The painting had been lying in his attic for over twenty years. One evening his wife watched _Antiques Roadshow_ on TV and began nagging him to take it in to be appraised. He finally relented in December. The dealer thought it might be a Corot and sent a photo to his home office where they recognized the painting. At that point Klossner approached Weatherby's."

"What we don't know is if Klossner was aware it was a forgery," Diana added. "He could easily claim he was innocent of any deliberate deception. He doesn't seem like the type of person who'd be able to distinguish a genuine Corot from a fake."

Peter turned to Neal and requested he update the others on his work.

"The Met didn't have time for a thorough analysis. Once they'd confirmed the evidence of the stamp, they passed it on to us. I've been conducting my own research. The stamp was, of course, a giveaway. It makes me think that whoever the forger is, he's overconfident in his own abilities. He had no reason to add the stamp in the first place. Looks to me like he was showing off. He wanted to demonstrate his contempt for authenticators and dare someone to challenge it. There's no doubt he's talented. The brushwork technique and the canvas correspond very well to Corot's late period."

"The number of Corot forgeries is very high. Many honest mistakes have been made," said Sara. "The question of whether or not there was any fraud involved will be difficult to prove."

"Not necessarily," Neal countered. "Most of the Corot forgeries were done before the second World War. If the painting can be dated to that period, I agree, there's no case. But what if the forgery were done recently? Within the past several years, or even"—Neal made a dramatic pause—"within the past few months? If that can be proved, the evidence would contradict Klossner's statement and point to deliberate fraud. "

"How difficult will it be to date the painting?" Peter asked.

"The clues are there. It's a question of being able to read them." Neal could have prolonged the suspense but Peter was giving him one of his cut-to-the-chase looks. "Our forger was sloppy. The Terre Verte pigment—that's an earth-green color—dries more slowly than most other pigments. Adequate time must be left between successive applications. The forger rushed the layers and in the process left a marker for the age of the painting. By calculating the rate of oxidation, I can assert confidently that it's less than four months old." Neal sat back and blinked winningly at the group who had all focused their eyes on him.

"You're sure?" Peter challenged.

"Positive. But, if you like, let the Met reexamine it. They'll corroborate what I say."

Peter turned to face Sara. "What can you tell us about how the authentication was conducted?"

"The painting was sent to an expert in France for confirmation," she replied. "He's worked with Sterling-Bosch on several other authentications and up to now there have never been any issues."

"Why wasn't the authentication performed in New York?" Diana asked. "With all the museums we have, surely the authentication could have more easily been conducted on site."

Sara looked frustrated. "I feel the same way. But Sterling-Bosch thinks in global terms. Our office in London has traditionally managed art insurance and claims. It's built up an extensive network of European experts to act as consultants. We've sent an investigator to interview the expert who was used for the Corot. I'm in town to liaise with Weatherby's. The likelihood of fraud in this case is a major concern. It's not only against Weatherby's but also against Sterling-Bosch. Our reputation's on the line."

"But this isn't the normal type of fraud that's worked against insurance companies," Neal pointed out. "The typical pattern these days is to have a painting stolen and then later returned by a so-called discoverer for the reward money. That can be far more lucrative then selling the painting on the black market and also less risky. What was done here—forging a lost masterpiece—is much less common."

"Sara, I'm counting on you to keep us informed of the status of your investigation into the authenticator," Peter said. He picked up Klossner's file and quickly scanned it. "Jones and Diana, research Klossner. He's a plumbing contractor. His wife's a saleswoman at a local department store. This doesn't sound like someone who'd commission an art forgery. Where and how did he acquire it?" Shaking his head, Peter looked troubled. "This doesn't add up. There are some missing pieces to the puzzle out there, people. Find them."

Peter didn't bring up the Dutchman, but Neal knew what he was thinking. Peter had been hoping to establish a connection between the Dutchman and _The Dreamer_ , but the Klossner profile was throwing a wrench into his scenario. While the Corot was certainly valuable, it seemed unlikely that someone like Klossner would have associated with the Dutchman, an internationally renowned criminal who'd worked on high-value items in the major capitals of the world.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At the conclusion of the meeting Sara pulled Neal aside and asked if she could see the lab. Neal was happy to agree. He was still riding the high from establishing the age of the forgery. Spending time with her was going to be much more enjoyable than the paperwork that otherwise awaited him.

Neal gave her a quick tour of the equipment he used to analyze the paint pigments. He'd planned to give her a high-level overview without going into details, but Sara pumped him for more information. Stopping in front of the Raman spectrometer, he explained how it allowed him to investigate artworks by shining a laser light on an object and avoid the need for sampling.

Sara looked up from studying the display monitor. "I've never had the chance to visit an authentication lab. This is impressive, Neal. I knew you were an artist. But after seeing all this, mad scientist may be more accurate."

Oops. Cool it on the self-promotion. That wasn't the image he aimed to project. "Don't get the wrong idea. It's rare I get the chance to use the equipment for art authentication."

"I wish it'd been some other company that was giving you such a great opportunity," she said with a wry smile.

Leading her to his niche, Neal rolled over a chair for her. "This has to be painful for you. How is Weatherby's taking it?"

"Not well. Their management's taking out its frustration with Sterling-Bosch on me and is threatening to switch insurers. Sterling-Bosch is determined to salvage the situation. They're sending in their regular team next week, but right now I'm on my own. This is the first time I've had to deal with irate customers. I feel like I should have taken a course in diplomacy first."

Neal winced in sympathy. Sara looked exhausted. She probably hadn't slept much on the plane coming over and the grueling meetings had taken a toll. "You against the wolves? A baton's not going to be much help."

She chuckled ruefully, "Sad to say." She sat up straighter in her chair. "Don't mind me. It's just the jet lag talking." Sara glanced around his niche. "You look comfortable here." Pointing to his most recent drawing, she asked, "Did you make that?"

Neal nodded. "It's a copy I drew of Raphael's _Head of a Muse_."

"She's mesmerizing. A vision from another time in this high-tech world of electronic gear."

"Exactly." Neal was surprised to hear her comment. He hadn't expected her to express the same feeling he had about the drawing.

Sara got up to examine his muse more closely. "If I were an artist, she'd inspire me. She's beautiful."

"Wouldn't you rather have Hercules as your muse?"

"Most depictions have him too muscle-bound for my taste."

"You could always go with the noble Apollo, suave and self-confident." That should please her. Bryan seemed like the Apollo type.

She shook her head slowly, as she continued to study the Raphael. "Not Apollo. He might be too arrogant. Maybe Hermes . . . Yes, Hermes, definitely. Fleet-footed, resourceful, witty, and reminds me of one my favorite stores." She broke into a disarming laugh. "I've found my muse."

Her laughter was infectious and Neal joined it. Sara liked Hermes. Intriguing. Bryan might be Apollo but he'd make a much better Hermes, patron of thieves and poets. Neal didn't picture Bryan as a swift-footed thief and imagining him as capable of inspiring poetry was a non-starter. At least for Neal it was, but maybe that was the way Sara saw Bryan. Love could do strange things.

Neal glanced at his watch. "It's almost quitting time. After the day you had, you could use a break and after working on this painting all day, so could I. There's a new tapas and wine bar that's opened up nearby. My treat."

"That's the best offer I've had all day," Sara said gratefully. "It will be like old times."

On their way out, Neal stopped by Jones's desk to let him know where he was going and put a note on his desk. He'd started early that morning so no one should mind. In any case next month he'd be on the early shift, and by that standard he'd already worked more than he should have. As he and Sara walked to the tapas bar, Neal felt an unusual spring to his step. Was he growing wings on his shoes?

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Malaga Tapas was on a narrow side street near the Federal Building. It had only been open for a few minutes when they arrived, and they were able to get a table for two. Neal ordered a bottle of Ribera del Duero and soon they were sipping wine and munching on an assortment of cheeses with grilled bread. Sara had been running all day with little time to eat so they went ahead and ordered a paella to split.

Judging by the frustrated expression on Sara's face, what she needed most, though, was a sympathetic ear, and Neal guided the conversation to let her open up. For several minutes she gave him an earful about the difficulties of dealing with Weatherby's.

"You've every right to be upset," he said. "It wasn't your fault what happened, but you're the nearest available target and they're taking it out on you." The waitress had placed the pan of paella on their table and Neal spooned some out onto Sara's plate.

She sniffed the paella appreciatively. "This is going to be my new favorite comfort food." Between bites she added, "Thanks for listening to my rant. I feel better now. That's what I came to New York for—to let Weatherby's vent at me, and I shouldn't have dumped it all on you. It's the first time I've had to perform an emergency triage like this, and I must say I have a lot more sympathy for those who do this full time. It's _so much_ more enjoyable recovering stolen merchandise than hearing how we messed up."

"I bet," Neal agreed, as he refilled their wine glasses.

"Weatherby's regular team is in Berlin on another assignment. When they arrive, I'll head back for London."

Neal noticed she hadn't mentioned Bryan the entire time. For a moment he wondered if they'd split up. "How's Bryan?"

"He's fine. He was in Paris when the news broke or I think they would have sent him rather than me."

"Sterling-Bosch isn't dumb. They realize you're a much more sympathetic listener than he would be." That sounded harsh. Neal added quickly, "Not that I'm criticizing Bryan."

A small smile flitted over her face. For a moment she looked like the Sara from last summer. "No Sighin' Bryan jokes? You're showing remarkable restraint, and I appreciate it. You know, I still can't get over how impressive you were at the meeting. I'd no idea you were such an expert in art authentication."

"It shouldn't be that surprising. After all, I'm going for a master's in art history."

"I realize that, but from the way you were expounding on Corot, you sounded more like a professor than a student. When did you acquire all that knowledge?"

"Corot's so frequently forged, he's a textbook example of the complexities of authentication."

A shadow crossed over her face. "Why do you always do that? Don't deflect, Neal. If you don't want to tell me, just say so."

"It's not that. I don't mind." Liar. What should he tell her? That his experience in creating forgeries gave him an insider's knowledge on authentication? Sara knew nothing about his criminal life and Neal had every intention of keeping it that way. The cover the Marshals provided should be adequate. "I grew up in Paris. My art teachers believed the best technique was copying the masters." Neal shrugged. "Picked up a lot of inside knowledge about the artists in the process."

"Well, I repeat, it's very impressive. The FBI's lucky to have you." Sara picked up a square of toasted bread and dipped it into the olive oil.

Neal hesitated. Her earlier rebuke had stung. On this subject at least he could be more open. "I'm not sure they feel that way."

"Why do you say that?"

"Art crime investigation is run out of the FBI's main office in Washington. Trying to get clearance to conduct an investigation in New York is difficult."

"With all the art cases here, I find that hard to believe. I would have thought they'd be thrilled to have a branch office in New York."

"They're protecting their turf. White Collar crime in the FBI's eyes is not art crimes, but copyright infringement, finance frauds, mortgage frauds . . . You wouldn't believe how many mortgage frauds." Neal huffed his frustration.

"Do you want to transfer to D.C.? Sounds like a better fit."

"That's just it. I don't. I like New York. I like the team I work with. And until I finish Columbia, I'm certainly not leaving. But afterwards …" Neal shrugged. "But enough about me. How about you? Are you still enjoying your work with Bryan?"

"Yes, in general." Sara bit her lip. "It's not all I as I'd imagined but we're good."

A little teasing wouldn't hurt. "Has he taught you any new aikido moves?"

"A few," Sara said, tilting her head with a grin but she declined to divulge any details. "Fiona and I got together in London over the Christmas holiday. She told me about the band. I didn't realize you were such an excellent musician. She raves about you."

Now who was the one deflecting? But even so, hearing that Fiona had been praising him to Sara was welcome news. Maybe those were wings growing out of his shoes. "It's been enjoyable. The band's been a great way to unwind. Do you play anything?"

Sara brushed back a lock of her hair. "Would you believe cello? My mom was a great proponent of exposing her kids to everything to see what would take. She enrolled my sister in violin lessons when she was five."

"The Suzuki method? Did your mom take lessons along with her?"

"Yep. I couldn't wait till I was old enough to start too. I insisted on being different so I took up the cello, and Mom gallantly attempted that too. We used to perform trios." Sara's voice trailed off, her fork still in the air. Rousing herself, she said, "God, I hadn't thought about that in a long time."

Sara seldom talked about her sister who had run away when Sara was thirteen, but Neal knew how devastated she'd been. Seeking to lighten the mood, he asked, "Do you still play? If Fiona finds out, she'll insist that you join us."

Sara rolled her eyes, laughing. "That would be a big mistake. I'm not in your league. It's my own fault for not practicing. After my sister left, I refused to play, but Mom persuaded me to pick it back up. She said if we played duets, Emily would hear us. At first I was too stubborn to give it a try, but she kept working on me and I eventually relented." Her expression softening, she added. "I still play occasionally, if for nothing else, to be reminded of her."

For the next hour they continued to catch up on each other's lives. This was the first real chance they'd had to talk since she left for London in October.

"I've enjoyed this," Neal said, motioning to the waitress for the check. "We'll have to come here again. Next time I'll plan ahead so Fiona can join us."

"I'd like that." She paused and cleared her throat. "I know you're probably not thrilled with Bryan. . . ."

"Hey, as long as he treats you right and you're happy, that's good enough for me," said Neal.

"Thanks, I know I didn't make it easy for you. It must have seemed like a bolt out of the blue when I told you I was seeing Bryan and moving to London. I should have explained it better, and earlier. Fiona's been good for you, I can tell," she added.

"We're trying not to rush things along. We're enjoying being together and that's enough for both of us."

"That sounds like a wise strategy," Sara said with a wistful look in her eyes. Neal was picking up vibes that she wasn't that happy with how things were going, but perhaps it was simply that her work was casting a shadow over her personal life too.

After they left the restaurant, Neal helped her catch a taxi to her hotel then he headed for the subway station. While waiting for the train, Neal thought about the conversation they'd had. This was a different Sara from the one he'd expected. She'd always been so upbeat and positive, with a smugness that rivaled his own. Her teasing sometimes reminded him more of a friend than someone he could be romantically attracted to. Before, he would have painted her in enamel-bright oils. Today she was in pastel watercolors. How much of that was fatigue and how much was the London influence? Or was it because of Bryan?

Relationships change a person. She said she could tell the difference in him because of Fiona, even though he didn't think he'd changed that much. How much had Bryan changed Sara? Neal liked her softer edges, but part of him also missed Sara the spitfire. Bryan better be good to her.

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: Penna Nomen and I have had our plot-spinning wheels working on overdrive for the mystery surrounding Sterling-Bosch and the Dutchman. We hope you enjoy what we've come up with. Some of you have wondered about the colorman's stamp that was found on the canvas. I based the stamp on an actual incident where the forger used Contet's stamp on a Corot forgery. The painting was authenticated by several experts as being a genuine Corot until finally someone realized the problem with the stamp._

 _In next week's chapter, The Insect Perspective, Neal attends Janet's exhibition where Mozzie has a reunion with Neal's Columbia friends._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	5. The Insect Perspective

**Chapter 5: The Insect Perspective**

 **Neal's loft, January 22, 2005. Friday evening.**

After saying goodbye to Sara at the tapas restaurant, Neal returned to his loft, resisting the temptation to head to his studio to paint. _Stop procrastinating_ , he lectured himself. He'd be able to spend the full day there tomorrow. This evening he'd vowed to crack open his textbook for computational art. Any further delay was futile. The problem was after being away from classes for a month, the thought of studying anything, let alone computational art, held zero appeal. But diagnosing the symptoms was much easier than implementing a solution. Perhaps if the ambiance were better. . . .

Neal poured himself a glass of wine and inserted a CD of Mozart chamber music into his player. Mozzie swore by the Mozart effect where simply listening to Mozart's music would lead to an improvement in reasoning ability. Computational art would be a demanding test of the theory. Neal knew he'd need to perform mental pushups to tackle the beast. Simply looking at the size of the textbook—all 700-plus heavy pages—was enough to send his cowardly brain cells into retreat. Was the supposedly fascinating world of computational design going to be his Waterloo?

He delayed as long as he could, first changing into sweat pants and a t-shirt and then leisurely going through his mail. He didn't remember Mozzie mentioning how long he needed to listen before the effect kicked in. So far nothing seemed to be happening. Perhaps he should listen for a few days before even attempting to study anything?

He flopped onto the couch and put the textbook on his lap. Oops. Forgot his wine. Can't study without a glass of wine. Once he was back on the couch, Neal gloomily regarded the book cover. The font they'd used on the title was lacking in originality. He could have selected a better one for them … He took a sip of wine. Intriguing bouquet. Was that a hint of anise? After a few minutes reflection, he returned to the task at hand. His brain still didn't feel any different. Why wasn't Mozzie around when he was looking for a distraction? Mozzie barged in at all hours of the day and night. Why was he abandoning him in his hour of need? Was this a conspiracy to make him open the book?

Mozart's _Nachtmusik_ was playing on his CD player. Getting a grip on himself, Neal opened the book. Chapter 1: "An Introduction to Processing." One obstinate brain cell stood up and whispered in his ear, _You could have chosen Matisse and instead you gave me this?_ Resolutely, Neal sent that brain cell packing and started reading. . . .

His phone rang. Yes! Salvation was at hand. Neal glanced at the display and when he saw it was Henry, grinned and shut his book.

Henry sounded surprised when he answered. "I took a chance you'd be home. Expected to leave a message. Friday night. You're not on a date?"

"First week of classes. Figured I'd get in some studying." Having impressed Henry with his altogether admirable discipline, Neal turned off the music and settled back to relate the tale of woe about his course. He didn't get as much sympathy as he'd expected. Henry thought computational art was just what he needed.

Henry then asked about what he was working on at the FBI. That demanded a little more discretion. Neal had never mentioned anything about Azathoth to Henry. He'd considered it briefly but when he saw how furious Henry had been over Fowler's frame attempt, he'd decided not to add fuel to the flames. Neal suspected the real reason for Henry's anger was that he was upset he hadn't been around to help. At least Fowler was out of the picture now, but the same couldn't be said of Azathoth. How might Henry react to him? In lieu of going down that rabbit hole, Neal lavished a good fifteen minutes in a dramatic description of the forgery discovery.

"So, Sara's back in town. I gather she hasn't seen the light and dumped Bryan?" Henry had schemed to bring Neal and Sara together last spring and still had a hard time believing his matchmaking hadn't worked.

"Apparently not, difficult as it to fathom." Not wanting to dwell on it, Neal switched the subject to Henry's new assignment. Hearing about the facial recognition software project was much more pleasant, and he could probably draw Henry out for at least a half-hour.

"The project's proceeding well. Soon we'll enter the testing phase. That's one of the reasons I called. I've scheduled several meetings with prospective clients over the next few weeks and will be traveling most of the time. We've already signed up a couple in South America and I'd like to press the flesh with them. I may be out of cell phone range for the duration."

"Why aren't you starting in the States?"

"Can't begin in the majors, kiddo. The FAA is a too large and influential player. We want to prove the product measures up to our specifications before approaching the FAA. Win-Win has several partnerships already in Latin America, so this is a natural fit."

"Are you going to have time to do your volunteer work in Ecuador?"

"Still planning on it. I've arranged to meet a musicologist in Quito and he'll take me along to a couple of the villages he's been working with." It was easy to hear the enthusiasm in Henry's voice as he warmed up to the topic. Clearly the ability to combine his love of music with working with kids was a powerful motivator.

They continued to talk for several minutes before Henry rang off, claiming he didn't want to keep Neal from his studies any longer. Killjoy. With a sigh, Neal turned Mozart back on and reopened the book to page eight.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Was that a sound on the stairs? Neal sat up and glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. The music had stopped. He must have nodded off. Hard to believe with such a fascinating book to read.

The footsteps grew louder. Not bothering to knock, Mozzie burst into the room. Even by Mozzie's standards, his attire was extraordinary. His yellow-and-black striped silk ascot with bright yellow vest, coupled with a black corduroy jacket gave him the look of a prosperous bumblebee.

"What do you think?" His look of smug satisfaction precluded being truthful.

Mozzie's theatrical flair had blossomed even more since he met Janet. It was as if she'd applied a growth hormone to his creative side. Somewhere underneath Mozzie's conspiracy theories lurked an exhibitionist eager to use his own body as a canvas. The vibrant colors of Janet's creations for the world of theater had opened Mozzie's eyes to a different palette. Add to that his newfound enthusiasm for all things Hawaiian and his wardrobe was an understandable outcome. Neal resisted the impulse to put on sunglasses and studied the vision standing before him.

"Have you considered carrying a walking stick? I can see you twirling it as you stroll."

Mozzie pondered it for a long moment and declined with a sigh, "It might detract, although it would be a subtle allusion to the bee's stinger. I'd thought of a leather aviator cap to give me the desired bee appearance, but I wasn't convinced that it would go with my vest."

"You made a wise decision, but you didn't tell me you were going to be one of the models at the exhibition."

"I'm not modeling Janet's art! No one is. The costumes are suspended in the air as if they were living insects transformed."

"Then why do you want to look like a bee?"

Mozzie huffed in exasperation. "Remember the yellow-faced bee? Janet allowed me to set up a booth in the foyer with flyers about its plight. That poster you made for me, by the way, worked out extremely well. Janet was thrilled." A smile spread over his face. "She was enthusiastic about my campaign and appreciative of how I'd become their champion. Mozzie pulled out a bottle from an insulated wine bag he was carrying. "We should toast the success of the exhibition. This is what we'll be serving at the reception."

Neal examined the bottle and broke into a grin when he saw the label.

"Billy and I had a rush batch made to serve at the reception. His Hawaiian relatives are a remarkable workforce, by the way. I was introduced to them in Hawaii and we bonded in solidarity."

"Workers of the world unite," Neal murmured.

"Precisely. For the wine we're serving at the reception, we blended a Washington chardonnay with the Hawaiian mountain apple and the subtle hint of honey. We're calling it 'Pele's Nectar.' The label you designed is magnificent. It makes it look as expensive as the price we're going to sell it for."

Neal swirled it in his glass. It did have an elegant golden color. Sniffing it, he savored the faint aroma of pear. It was dry but had a refreshing floral bouquet. "Sophisticated, elegant . . . I predict you have a winner."

"I've been working on it for the past three weeks to get the blend just right. He looked at Neal accusingly. "I really should have called on your palate more, but you've been so busy."

"You know I'm happy to help."

"Excellent. I have several other blends in mind. Valentine's Day is almost upon us and I've already begun work on the marketing campaign. Our motto will be Honey Wine is for Lovers."

"I like it. Should be a big seller, especially with the college crowd."

Mozzie nodded enthusiastically. "I'll make a list of the posters and labels I need. I can see it now: a bottle of honey wine for every couple. Did you know that honey wine, or honey mead as it is often called, is believed to promote fertility and virility?"

"The virility aspect could sell, but I'd go slow on trumpeting fertility to college students."

Mozzie breezed over his warning as he warmed up to his subject. "In the Middle Ages it was considered to be an essential element of the wedding ceremony, and newlyweds were provided with enough wine for a month. If I could get every wedding in New York to include a month's worth of wine …" His eyes widened at the prospect. "Oh, I better start looking into more storage space . . . Must speak with El—she's handling many receptions now." He pulled out a small notepad from his jacket and started to scribble notes.

"I'll try to clear my calendar to help. I may need to drop my course on computational art. It will be a sacrifice, but the cause justifies it."

Mozzie paused taking notes to fix him with a stern look. "That would be ill advised. The skills covered in that course are extremely useful. You never know when they'll prove relevant. Particularly fractals. I've long been fascinated by them. Fractals are the key to unlocking some of life's greatest mysteries."

Had fractals joined the long list of Mozzie's obsessions? Neal tabled that dismaying thought for further reflection and returned to the immediate task in front of him. "I should warn you. You're going to see some familiar faces at the reception."

"How many suits are we talking about?" he asked uneasily.

"Not only suits. Aidan and Richard want to come."

His expression brightened. "I haven't seen them since— Wait, they know me as Athos. What have you told them about me?"

"Simply that you're undercover with a new alias and not to expect you with long, flowing locks. Aidan will be coming with his girlfriend Keiko."

"Keiko?" Mozzie rubbed his hands together, looking more and more pleased. "Aidan talked to me about her. I gave him some pointers on the art of courtship. They must have helped. That was before I'd unlocked the mystery of the bee's mating algorithm. I know he'll want to hear my latest theories."

That was a surprise. Neal had thought he was the only one who'd suffered Mozzie's well-intentioned if misguided coaching. He was going to have to compare notes with Aidan. "Good idea. I'm sure Aidan will want a full account, preferably with diagrams. Oh, and Richard's bringing Travis."

His smile faded. "Richard . . . and a suit? They're seeing each other?"

"That's right." Evidently, a little extra push was called for. "Don't think of Travis as a suit. After all, he avoids wearing one whenever possible. Think of him as one of my closest friends who risked his own career to help me con Fowler. Doesn't that elevate him into a higher category? A non-suit?"

Mozzie nodded slowly. "Perhaps a Vulcanized suit. He does show an unusual talent to color outside the lines." Swallowing the remnants of his first glass of wine, he poured another. "It's not . . . I'm happy for Richard and Travis, of course, but it takes some getting used to. These days, everywhere I look I'm seeing suits. Does this mean I'm in the system now?"

"Not a chance," Neal said firmly, "and remember, these are suits with wallets. They're all potential honey wine customers and donors to the cause."

Mozzie stroked his upper lip thoughtfully. "You make a good point. An untapped market that deserves more attention. A specially blended wine—J. Edgar Hoover's Private Reserve, perhaps—if handled correctly could command four times the normal price." Raising his glass, he said to Neal with a smile, "Bring on your suits! Difficulties mastered are opportunities won."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On Saturday Neal spent the day painting in his studio, returning to his loft in the afternoon to change for the reception. Leaving the bright colors to Mozzie, he chose a dark turtleneck and corduroy jacket for his evening in SoHo, a haven for artists in Lower Manhattan.

Neal took the subway to the event, getting off at the Prince Street station. SoHo was a popular destination on weekends and the subway stairs were crowded with shoppers. Neal rarely had the time to visit SoHo and was looking forward to strolling among the art galleries and funky architecture. The Cecile Gallery where Janet was exhibiting was on Greene Street, in the heart of the historic district of cast iron buildings and cobblestone streets. He noticed that several trendy shops had moved in next to the artists' lofts and bookstores. SoHo was going upscale. It'd be a shame if it lost its identity in the process.

Neal had arrived early intentionally so he could take his time and explore some of the art galleries on Prince Street. He missed having Fiona along but it was unavoidable. She'd been required to attend an evening reception for high-end clients. Neal stopped in front of a gallery which was hosting a one-man show for a contemporary artist with the artist's name displayed on long banners hanging in the windows. Would _Neal Caffrey_ ever be painted on banners like that?

As he stood in front of the window gazing in at the art, he felt a sudden prickle of uneasiness on the back of his neck. His senses abruptly sharpened. He was being watched.

He didn't change his stance but scanned the reflections of the passersby in the gallery window. No one that he recognized. Some of Neal's earliest childhood memories were of Ellen teaching him hide-and-seek. At the time he hadn't appreciated that she was training him in how to elude capture. Ever since then he felt like he had a third eye which was constantly on the lookout for predators. That third eye was seldom wrong, and it was warning him now.

Slowly, Neal turned around, and checked out the surroundings while pretending to make a phone call. And, walking his way was . . . not an enemy, but Peter and El. Neal exhaled slowly. The discovery of the flash drive in Flushing must have made him jumpier than he'd realized. He could turn off the warning sirens for Azathoth. Still, it was good to know his third eye was fully operational. Chalk this one up to a practice drill. Neal waved and waited for them to catch up.

"Fiona's not with you?" El asked.

"No, alas. I'm not the only one who's called upon to work weekends. Peter will have to share you with me," he said, stepping up to walk in stride with her on the other side from Peter.

"At least that means she'll have to be understanding of your schedule," Peter remarked. "Fiona's earning herself extra points with me."

Neal grinned. Peter teased El about being a matchmaker, but he was getting nearly as bad.

When they arrived at their destination, the reception had just opened. Janet was standing in the foyer to greet the guests. She was wearing what must have been one of her creations, a hand-painted silk butterfly-sleeved tunic over black leggings and coupled with flats which resembled iridescent snails. Her hot pink glasses matched the color of the giant eyespots in the design.

The Cecile Gallery's minimalist look was a suitable backdrop for her extravagant use of dayglow-bright colors. Silk multicolor smoking jackets with furled tails resembling butterflies were suspended from exposed beams. Janet had also designed dresses—short cocktail numbers with antenna headpieces— and high heels. One pair of grasshopper heels was particularly striking in fluorescent green with yellow bulging eyes. Neal noticed a short cocktail dress in black leather and yellow silk which mimicked a yellow-faced bee. That must have been a last-minute creation in Mozzie's honor.

In comparison to Janet's costumes, Mozzie's yellow ascot and vest appeared almost muted. He'd already taken his position beside a display on the yellow-faced bee. Neal's poster was prominently mounted on an easel in the center of the display. Neal restrained himself to a small smile when he saw it. He was being exhibited in an art gallery, after all. Mozzie also had a stack of brochures about the yellow-faced bee and, for a donation, was offering glasses of Pele's Nectar.

Upon spotting them, Mozzie immediately called them over. "Suit, I know you want to make a donation."

"Of course, we do," El said firmly. Opening her purse, she inserted a twenty dollar-bill into the beehive ceramic bank sitting on the table. Nodding appreciatively, Mozzie poured them glasses of wine.

Peter sniffed his glass gingerly. "Nice floral scent." The words sounded innocent but unknowingly Peter had tripped a switch in Mozzie's brain since without warning he launched full throttle into his lecture on yellow-faced bees and the harm being inflicted upon them.

"The raping of their environment by heartless corporations and developers is a crime." Mozzie glared at Peter. "Why isn't the FBI working on that?"

"I'm recording this," Neal told Peter. "Mozzie asks FBI for help. Time 6:05 p.m., date—"

"I think it's wonderful," Janet said, gazing at Mozzie with admiration. "I find it completely irresistible when someone champions the cause of those who can't speak for themselves."

"I agree," El seconded. Turning to Janet, she added, "Your costumes are spectacular. They almost seem to pulse with kinetic energy like a neon light display."

Janet's face lit up with her comments. "I like to think that the colors in my costumes act as emitters of pheromones, triggering responses ranging from enticement to a subtle release of long-dormant passion or even full-scale arousal."

Her remarks were cut short when Keiko and Aidan arrived. It was perhaps for the best as Mozzie's head was beginning to glisten from the pheromones Janet was broadcasting his way. Neal made the introductions. Keiko was eager to talk with Janet and explained that she was researching using the kimono as an art form and hoped to incorporate costume elements into her sculptures.

"Looks like you lost your date," Neal muttered to Aidan.

"I was expecting this," Aidan replied. "When I mentioned the exhibition to her, Keiko was already planning to attend. She and Janet are tuned to the same wavelength." Aidan turned to the champion of the defenseless. "So, Mozz, what's shakin'? I've missed you. Got any new hacks planned?"

Peter raised a brow and murmured to Neal, "Aidan and Mozzie are pals?"

"Apparently so," Neal said innocently. "Who knew?"

Mozzie threw himself with renewed vigor into his yellow-faced bee screed for Aidan, who took it in stride. Neal and Peter took advantage of the diversion to escape for a stroll through the exhibit. In the center of the gallery, Janet's costumes were grouped with smaller items on pedestals. Along the walls were hung several large photographs of insects by a well-known New York artist.

Neal approached one photo to study it in detail. "Too bad the photographer wasn't able to be here."

"This is a fractal image, isn't it?" Peter asked.

"Yes, that's the reason Aidan's here. In fact, he suggested I attend before he knew I was already coming. The artist is famous for his use of fractals both in photography and videos. I'd been giving Aidan grief over my computational art course and he thought it'd help."

"Course not going well?"

"In a word, _no_. Had my first class Thursday and was totally lost. I naively thought the focus would be on art. Supposedly no knowledge of programming is needed, but that was a con if ever there was one. I'm out of my depth." It felt better to admit to Peter what was going on, but Neal had no confidence how Peter would react. He was aware he was on the verge of sounding like a whining kid. On the other hand, he only had time for three courses this semester. Did he really want to waste one of his options on a course he had so little affinity for? "I'm considering dropping it. I have till the end of the month to decide."

Aidan walked over to them. "Once you get the Mozz started, he doesn't stop, does he?" he said with a grin. "Glad to see you're admiring fractals, Neal. You gotta admit they have a magnetic appeal. Peter, support me on this."

Peter nodded in agreement. "You're right. They make powerful statements. Do you use fractals in your art?"

"I use them in videos, like this one here. Did you see it? It's a fractal animation of a beehive honeycomb." They stood back to watch it. The animation was mesmerizing and a little disorienting as it zoomed in to reveal layer within layer. The images slowly rotated to the sound of ambient space music. Neal almost felt like he was on a space station drifting in the cosmic void.

"Genius, isn't it!" Mozzie had come up to join them and couldn't restrain himself any longer. "I've been investigating honeycombs, research I might add which is lending weight to my theory of the extraterrestrial origin of bees. The complexity of their fractal structures can only be a result—"

Neal knew his eyes were glazing over. He hadn't realized that Mozzie had merged his passion for bees with his belief in UFOs. He could tell that Peter and Aidan were having the same reaction. It was a relief to see Travis and Richard walking up. Neal waved them over eagerly.

When Mozzie spotted Travis, his words trailed off, but Travis was sensitive to Mozzie's flight instinct and approached slowly. With a quick wink to Neal, he flashed Mozzie a surreptitious Vulcan salute, holding his fingers low by his side. When Neal saw Mozzie respond in a like manner, he knew the battle had been won.

"Are the photographs helping you with your course?" Richard asked Neal.

"Not particularly. I have no problem admiring fractal art. Creating it is still the issue."

"Fractals have become so pervasive, they're hard to ignore," Peter said. "Fractal analysis is also being used for criminal investigations."

"Not only earth-bound investigations," Travis added. "We're using a similar technique as we search for artificial objects on planets. Last week I attended a lecture SETI gave on their methods. Riveting stuff. It may have applications for Mars."

Peter shot a quick glance at him. "I didn't know you were involved with the search for extraterrestrial life."

"Been working with SETI for years. I'm on the steering committee. We hold regular meetings at Columbia."

At Travis's words, Mozzie shuffled over to stand beside him. "Did I hear correctly? You're with SETI?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The reception ended at seven and Neal left shortly afterward. Now that the gallery was open to the public it was rapidly filling to the point of overflowing with the Saturday evening art crowd. Besides, he'd had his fill of fractals, and Fiona would be getting off work. They planned to go to a late showing of _The Merchant of Venice_ at a theater near Fiona's apartment in Gramercy Park on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

Peter and El left the reception with him. Since their car was parked close to Neal's subway stop, they walked together. Night had fallen but the streets in SoHo were still crowded as restaurants filled up with Saturday night diners.

"Janet should be pleased," Neal remarked. "I'm sure the reviews will be outstanding."

"And she's not the only one," El said, slipping an arm through his. "I heard several people approach Mozzie asking where they could purchase his wine. Many of them also raved about the artist of the poster and wanted to buy copies."

Neal briefly considered acting nonchalant, but hell, his first sales from an art gallery? He'd have to add a note about that to the milestones box Byron had given him. Byron had suggested he use it to add notes to remind himself about successes he'd had in staying on his new career path, and he'd already added several, folded into origami figures. This one would have to be an origami bee.

He was still smiling when Peter asked about the upcoming exhibition at Columbia, a required component of the master's program. It was held in the art gallery on campus and would be the first time his paintings would be displayed in a public setting. Aidan, Richard, and he had been working toward the exhibition since September. "Can your paintings be purchased?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

"I don't see why not," El said. "They're your artworks. You'll no doubt paint additional ones anyway for your second year thesis exhibition."

As they walked back, the other hot topic of conversation was Mozzie. "I wish you'd taken a picture of him leading Travis off, physically, by the arm—touching a suit—so they could discuss the latest alien sightings," Peter said with a laugh.

Neal shook his head emphatically. "No pictures allowed. Mozzie would have confiscated your camera and destroyed the evidence. I didn't know Travis volunteered for SETI either, although given his interest in sci-fi, it's not a surprise."

"Do you think Travis knows what he's in for?" El asked.

Neal shrugged. "Travis likes to think he can handle space aliens. Mozzie may put him to the test." Difficulties mastered . . . Mozzie had stepped up to the challenge, and Neal had been proud of him. If Mozzie could do it, wasn't it time to stop backsliding and master his own difficulties? Aidan had offered tutoring help. Neal vowed to take him up on it.

As they walked back along Prince Street, they took their time and lingered in front of some of the windows. El had them stop in front of a display of antique hardware. She was trying to talk Peter into remodeling their powder room. Neal had no desire to be drawn into that contentious debate and retraced his footsteps to the bookstore next door. The display of antique maps in the window included some interesting maps of Manhattan from the nineteenth century. Neal approached the window to study them when his third eye flashed him a warning again. This time he didn't waste any time but quickly spun around. He scanned the crowd of passersby, stepping out to the curb for a better view.

"What is it?" Peter asked quietly. He'd left the hardware display and had come back to join Neal.

"Not sure." Neal hesitated and looked around. He didn't see El. She must have gone into the store. "Earlier this evening I had the feeling I was being watched, and I just felt it again." He shook his head in frustration. "But I'm not finding anyone."

"Do you think you could simply be on edge? Understandable, after we found those photos."

"Yeah, I suppose." But two times in one night . . . Who wasn't he seeing?

Peter eyed him thoughtfully. "Your instincts aren't usually wrong on this. What do you want to do?"

"Nothing we can do besides staying alert." Neal shrugged. No point in dwelling on it. "Did you hear anything from D.C.?"

"Yes, Art Crimes has agreed to let you examine some of the Dutchman's works. They'll be here for you on Monday."

That was outstanding news. Neal had been braced to have the request turned down. "How were you able to get approval?"

"I called Kramer and explained that I have this young hotshot working for me who's going to help us identify the Dutchman. He already knows about your work, you know. Someday you'll have to meet him."

"Thanks, man. If they were arriving tonight, I would have gone in tomorrow."

"Surely you have something better to do than work at White Collar on Sunday."

"Not necessarily better but it could be entertaining. I'm meeting Richard and Aidan in the afternoon. Angela's going to teach us how to apply makeup." Neal chuckled and stepped back from the curb.

"Wait a minute," Peter protested. "You can't leave me dangling like that."

"It's for Richard's special effects class. He feels about makeup like I do about fractals. Angela's an expert in makeup. She's going to demonstrate some of her trade secrets."

"You get any pictures, I want to see them."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: "Difficulties mastered are opportunities won," a quote by Winston Churchill, was spoken by Mozzie in the season 3 episode "Deadline." In our AU, Mozzie is gradually becoming comfortable with Neal being a member of the White Collar team. His friendship with Travis is just starting in this chapter. In future chapters it strengthens and begins to spread to other members of the team. I hope you like the direction we're taking him._

 _Among the Penna Nomen Easter eggs scattered in this chapter are references to By the Book (where Henry tells Neal how Ellen taught Neal to hide) and Flashback (for the milestones box and Henry's matchmaking efforts). Mozzie is such a flamboyant character—many thanks to Penna Nomen for helping me to keep him from flying off too far into outer space._

 _If you'd like to visit the exhibition, Janet's costumes, the fractal images, and scenes of SoHo are all on The Dreamer board of the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. For Janet's designs I borrowed the inspired creations of Stella Cecil, a talented London designer._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	6. Behind the Mask

**Chapter 6: Behind the Mask**

 **Columbia University, January 23, 2005. Sunday afternoon.**

"Welcome to Prentis," Neal said as he greeted Angela at the door. This was her first visit to the building, and Neal remembered vividly his initial impression—the Borg Mother Ship he'd dubbed it. Prentis Hall was a converted milk bottling plant north of the main campus in the midst of auto-repair shops and tenements. It housed an eclectic mixture of art studios and workshops, the computer music center, and random antiquated machinery. "With your goth makeup, you should fit right in."

Angela's eyes widened as she walked through the graffiti-decorated corridors. She'd dressed appropriately in black leggings, suede boots, and an oversized long sleeve Burgundy-red tunic. "This is a far cry from Dodge Hall where the Music Department's located. It has grunge written all over it. Do you wish your studio were here?"

"Watson's more convenient, but between the band rehearsals, Aidan's studio, and the metal workshop, I spend so much time here that I already feel like Prentis is my annex studio."

They stopped at Aidan's studio to drop off her dulcimer then Neal led her to the staircase down to the basement where the workroom had been set up for the special effects class. The SFX workshop was a world of masks, molds, prosthetic supplies, and paints squeezed in among the massive piping system which was a relic of the bottling plant era. Newly installed lights made the mildew stains on the blackened walls even more obvious.

"I feel like I'm on the set of a horror film," Angela said, clambering over the pipes to get a closer look at the walls. "If I'd known about this course, I would have signed up for it."

"Me too, but the spaces were snapped up immediately. Richard was lucky to get in, not that he's feeling that way at the moment." Richard and Aidan were already waiting for them in the workshop, and Neal made the introductions. If Angela had any concerns about being accepted, they were quickly laid to rest. Richard was profuse in his thanks for her showing up.

"The course is an introduction to special effects makeup and basic prosthetics design," he explained, handing her an apron. "Our first assignment is to create a theatrical makeup, including a simple prosthetic, of a famous actor. We'll then have to demonstrate our technique in class by performing a makeup on each other. I've already prepared the prosthetic, but where I'm lost is applying the makeup."

"That's where I can help," Angela said. "I've loved makeup since I was a toddler and discovered my mom's supplies. I was making horror makeup when I was three with some very creative applications of lipstick on my face, not to mention the walls. I was starring in my first zombie movie without knowing it. So what you have here looks like a dream playground to me."

Richard took her around to the various stations, explaining the equipment he had to work with. It was easy to understand Angela's fascination. Wigs, makeup supplies, and dummies filled the shelves alongside mold-making paraphernalia. Their group wasn't alone in the workshop. Some of the other students were also working on their creations. One guy appeared to be preparing a Phyllis Diller mask. Another was working on what could only be considered a nightmarish version of Lon Chaney as Frankenstein, as if the original Frankenstein weren't bad enough.

"Which actor did you select for me?" Neal asked Richard. "Are you going to turn me into a monster too?"

"Given the obscene tan you came back with from Hawaii, I thought this would be appropriate," Richard said, showing him a photo.

"You sure about this? I was thinking of someone like Ryan Gosling or Bradley Cooper."

When Neal passed Aidan the photo, he burst out laughing. "Oh, that's a keeper."

"It's you, only better," Angela agreed enthusiastically. "You better work on your accent while we apply the makeup."

"But I'm only here for the trial run," Neal protested. "Richard will reapply the makeup during class on one of the other students."

"Yeah, but I also need to take a photo of you to exhibit," Richard pointed out. He held up a prosthesis. "You like the nose?"

"You're putting that on me? It's huge."

Richard eyed it dubiously. "Most of it will blend in, I think."

"I'll go check out the wigs," Aidan said.

"Hey, promise me no dyes or scalpel jobs on my hair," Neal pleaded, watching with a growing sense of foreboding as Richard rolled over a cart filled with makeup and implements of unknown purpose.

"Relax." Angela slapped him on the back and shoved him on a stool. "Come into Richard's parlor." She unfolded a couple of sheets and covered him up so securely he began to wonder if she weren't going to make a mummy out of him. It was not reassuring when she explained, "These will keep the blood off your clothes."

Aidan had pulled up a stool opposite Neal's and was watching the proceedings with great interest. "Did you bring your textbook like I asked?"

"It's in my backpack. Let me know what you think. Ow. Careful, guys, that's my nose you're yanking, not a prosthesis." Neal sighed. He was going to be in for a long session.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

An hour into their work, and Neal was growing restless. Angela had made Richard start with several different basic looks, each of which needed to be applied, photographed, and then removed. Her thoroughness was undoubtedly a godsend for Richard but not for him.

Aidan was doing his best to distract Neal by talking about his course, although Neal easily could have thought of several much more entertaining pastimes. "I'm impressed by your book, but I can see why you're having issues. This is much more advanced than what I'd expect to be covered in an introductory course. And it doesn't make any sense that your professor started with fractals. That's the most difficult concept in the book. Maybe he's trying to weed out the weaker students?"

Neal raised his hand under the sheet. "That's me."

"Stop squirming," Angela complained. "You turned Richard's shadow into a scar."

"Just make me Scarface and have done with it," Neal said with a groan.

Aidan looked up and a grin spread over his face. "Maybe you should switch to Freddy Krueger?"

Richard stepped back and squinted at Neal in an alarming manner. "Your eyebrows are crooked. I need to fix that."

Neal made a grab for the mirror, but Angela was too fast for him and shoved him back in the chair. "Keep your focus on the book, Aidan. You were doing a good job of distracting our victim—sorry, Neal—slip of the tongue. I meant model, of course."

On the plus side," Aidan said, "if you survive fractals, the rest won't be so bad. Interpolating color palettes, the art of programming beautifully, animated brushes—this is great stuff. There are self-study questions for each chapter. I'll ask the questions for the first chapter and you give me the answers."

"Fire when ready." Or just aim the cannon directly at his heart and shoot him. Aidan would get the same number of correct answers either way.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Thirty minutes later, Neal was feeling slightly better about his course if not about his appearance. They weren't letting him look at a mirror yet. After several false starts, Richard had finally applied the nose to his satisfaction without any major bloodletting, and he was making the final adjustments to the makeup under Angela's watchful eye. Aidan had pounded fractal theory into Neal until his head spun and he'd hoisted the white flag of surrender.

"Mozzie had an interesting proposition for me last night," Aidan remarked.

"Define interesting," Richard said, staring fixedly at Neal's chin while stirring some goop in a bowl. Neal watched uneasily as he blended in a tangerine-tinted slime concoction and then smeared some of it on his cheeks. Was this going to stain his skin? He was already starting to itch.

"I was telling him about my videos, and he wants me to make one to promote the plight of the yellow-faced bee."

Richard laughed. "He talked with me for a half-hour on that too. Where does he come up with all that stuff?"

"What did you tell him?" Neal asked.

"How could I resist?" Aidan said with a grin. "AFO, remember? Athos may be calling himself Mozzie now but he's still a brother. I enjoy working with the Mozz and besides, I'm taking a course on animation this term. If I work it right, my project for him can count as the short I need to prepare for the course. I was stuck for a topic, and the yellow-faced bee will do as well as any."

"Have you ever made an animation before?" Angela asked as she combed out the wig. Aidan had found one of the right color but it needed to be restyled. Goldilocks was not the look Richard was aiming for.

"No, this is a first. In my videos I've always used photography or computer-generated graphics. This is different. I'm supposed to use animated figures."

"Make a cartoon? You?" Richard scoffed. "This I have to see." Neal shared Richard's skepticism. Aidan excelled at mashing video and sound effects, but he wasn't an artist in the traditional sense. The only figures Neal had ever seen him draw had been of the stick variety.

"I was hoping my AFO brothers would help with that part," Aidan admitted, looking hopefully at them.

"You're coaching me on fractals. I owe you," Neal said. The wig was now on his head and for the past several minutes both Angela and Richard had been taking turns trimming it to the desired shaggy dog effect. Blowing the hair out of his eyes, Neal asked, "Aren't you guys done yet?"

"What do you think, Angela?" Richard asked.

She stepped back and then circled Neal, viewing him from all sides. Finally nodding her approval, she gave Richard a high-five. "Yep, he's baked to perfection."

Richard handed Neal a mirror. "Behold, the new you."

Neal broke out in a grin as he looked at his face from different angles. Trying out his new raspy accent, he drawled, "Dude, I'm digging it."

Aidan cracked up. "Where's your surfboard?" Do you have a Hawaiian shirt for the photo?"

Neal heard footsteps on the stairs and turned around to see Travis approaching them. "I thought I'd find you down here."

"Perfect timing." Neal pulled off the sheet covering his jeans and t-shirt and stood up, striking a pose. "Hang ten, bro."

Travis approached with a straight face and looked from the side and full face. "Totally rad! I never would have thought Neal could look like Owen Wilson, but you nailed it."

Richard said happily, "We did, didn't we, thanks to Angela."

"Any time," she said. "I haven't had so much fun messing with makeup since I turned Henry into a vampire for Halloween."

"We have time for a break before band rehearsal," Neal said. "Angela hasn't been introduced into the fine cuisine of the Roaring Lion. Should I take off the makeup or leave it on?"

Richard shot him a horrified look. "You can't take it off! Not before I photograph you. Stay put, and whatever you do, don't sneeze!"

"You should leave it on for band rehearsal," Travis said. "Fiona has to see the new you. Be prepared, though. She may prefer you as a beach bum to your normal look and then what are you going to do?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The band rehearsal went smoothly, given that it was the first time people had gotten together since the Christmas break. Afterwards Neal walked Angela back to her apartment on West 120th Street. They were too late for the college shuttle. She could have taken a taxi but she liked the idea of walking too. Angela was slowly learning her way around the neighborhood, and Neal was showing her the safe routes as well as the ones which should only be taken in the company of several linebackers.

"Could you believe Fiona's reaction when we walked in together, arm in arm?" Angela said, laughing. "She actually believed me for a minute when I said you were my boyfriend from California, my very own surfer-dude. You know, the way she kept giving you the eye during rehearsal . . . you may want to wear your Owen Wilson look on a date sometime."

"Could be interesting," Neal agreed. "I better do it fast before my tan fades. But I wasn't the only one getting looks. Michael seemed relieved to find out I wasn't your boy toy, after all."

Angela snorted. "It's hardly a compliment when I was the only unattached woman there. Still, he was kind, trying to make me feel at ease."

"So what did you think of the band? Quite a change after Urban Legend."

"I was pleasantly surprised," Angela said. "What I liked was that everyone was simply enjoying getting together to make music. There was no thought of playing what an audience wanted to hear, or, horrors, making money at it."

"Your dulcimer fit right in."

"I almost felt like a kid with a xylophone. And then when Michael started serenading me with his tin whistle. . . ."

"More like ear-piercing shrieks. Remind me to bring ear plugs next time."

"I thought he was doing it deliberately so I wouldn't feel nervous."

Neal snorted. "Yeah, right."

Angela grinned. "Okay, so now I was the one being kind. You know, he invited me out for pizza next Friday. He'd asked what I missed about Seattle, and I mentioned the Flying Saucer Pizza Company—I'm addicted to their Picard pizza with beer bread—and he said a branch had just opened near campus."

"Um-hum. That's as good a pick-up line as any, I guess."

She made a fist and punched him lightly in the side. "No wisecracks. So, what's the scoop on Michael? I need details."

"He's in the PhD program for art history. Works for Manhattan Geeks to help pay the bills. He'd never played an instrument before joining our band."

"You're kidding! I'm impressed."

"When he's not practicing his virtuoso tambourine technique, he's into rowing." Neal slanted a glance over at her. "You thinking of making music together?"

Angela shrugged. "Maybe. Since I don't have a surfer-dude, I gotta console myself with someone." They stopped at the traffic light on Broadway and West 120th Street. Angela shivered as a blast of cold air hit her. "This is punishment for deserting Seattle. A friend wrote me they were having their mildest winter in years. Henry has the right idea to escape to Ecuador. Do you know where he'll be?"

Neal told her about his conversation on Friday night. "He's meeting his contact in Quito and then they're going to some remote village. He warned me he won't have cell phone coverage and to try to keep out of trouble while he's gone."

She shook her head. "Typical. I wonder how much longer he's going to continue to play the big brother role?"

"If last summer is any indication, it could take a while. You know Henry doesn't stop something once he gets started. You may have to get married and have kids of your own, and even then he won't give up. Besides, it's not that bad having someone look out for you, is it?"

She shrugged. "You're right. I'd probably miss it, as long as he doesn't try to boss me around. Mercifully, he's been restraining himself so far." When they turned onto 120th Street, she added, "I shouldn't give him a hard time over his advice. He came up with a great suggestion when I was bemoaning that I'm already supposed to be writing up my summer field work project for ethnomusicology. I know it's my own fault for starting midyear, but I can still complain about it— I feel like I'm a semester behind and I've barely started. Anyway, Henry had the perfect solution."

"Chalk one up for Henry. What did he suggest?"

"That I look into GEMI, the group he's volunteering for. They have education through music projects not only overseas but in the States. I could latch onto one of them, and, voilà, field work problem solved."

"They might even have a project in the Appalachians close to some of our relatives."

"I'd love that. I'm sure some of those kids are worlds better on the dulcimer than I am. I might even be able to enlist some of our caravan cousins to give a demo or workshop. And this should please my mom. Ever since the kidnapping last summer, she's been stressing about me staying safe. She's been a basket case about New York. Sends me weekly bulletins about the crime rate, not that where she lives in D.C. is any safer. The idea of doing field work in rural America rather than the urban jungle should please her."

"Just don't let her watch _Deliverance_."

"Definitely not! The other point in its favor is that it should be cheap. I thought I'd built up a comfortable cushion for New York, but even with the help on housing, I'm going through my funds a lot faster than I'd anticipated. I'm thinking of getting a part-time job. You don't happen to know of anything?"

Neal glanced over her, speculating. She had a minor in business. She was a pilot so her math skills should be reasonable. Could she be the answer to the prayers of not only Richard but also of a certain bee lover too?

"What are you thinking?"

"I may be able to help with that job. I know of someone who could use help with bookkeeping. It's next door to Columbia. The working conditions are excellent. You could probably finagle free meals and there's even a line of cosmetics they're planning to promote. You could get in on the ground floor and help the business grow."

Angela stopped walking to stare at him. "It sounds wonderful." She eyed him suspiciously. "Too wonderful. What's the catch?"

"No catch. You like colorful characters, don't you?" Neal filled her in on his idea about the Aloha Emporium and promised to contact Billy about it the next day. Angela was clearly excited about the prospect, telling him she'd meet with Billy whenever he could fit her in.

After leaving her at the door to her apartment building, Neal walked back to June's. The day had been a success. No more need to be concerned about Angela, and Richard had taken a quantum leap in his makeup skills. Aside from masquerading as Henry occasionally, Neal had never gone in for disguises. The way he'd been transformed into a completely different identity gave him pause. Who was behind Azathoth's mask? Were they ever going to be able to strip it away?

 **White Collar Division, January 24, 2005. Monday morning.**

Come Monday morning, Neal was ready to rip off another mask. He'd awakened early, already wondering about which paintings D.C. had sent. The Dutchman must have sailed his ghost ship through his dreams.

It was Peter's fault for having given the Dutchman such an evocative nickname. Now Neal found himself drawn to the mystery and couldn't leave it alone. He'd have to admit there was a little vanity at play here. He'd been amused to hear that Peter thought he might have been the Dutchman. And flattered. Solving the mystery was within his grasp. He could feel it. Neal wanted to hand Peter the Dutchman on a silver platter.

As promised, the shipment had already arrived from D.C. Neal signed the works out of the evidence vault, and stacked them on a cart to bring back to his niche. As he rolled the cart back to the lab, he felt like a kid at Christmas time making off with his loot. He'd already cleaned off his work table, but before unwrapping his packages, he still had one task to perform.

Neal opened his briefcase and took out the watercolor of the ship he'd finished over the weekend. It was based on the sketch he'd made at the Friday meeting. He used magnets to hang the Dutchman next to his Raphael drawing. For the moment the Dutchman was only emerging from the fog in his watercolor, but he was going to change that.

Taking inventory from the receipt, Neal had two paintings to examine as well as three examples of bond forgeries. Putting the bonds aside, he carefully uncrated the paintings. The first one was _The Witches' Sabbath_ by Goya. A small painting, it had been stolen from the Frick Collection in 2001 and replaced with this forgery. It was only after the original had been discovered in a warehouse that the forgery was unmasked. The second was _Salome_ by Titian. The original, along with several other paintings, had been stolen in 2003 from the truck transporting them from the Fine Arts Museum in San Francisco to the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. The forgery had been turned in to the museum for the reward by an art dealer who claimed to have purchased it from an Italian immigrant. Later two of the other stolen paintings were discovered and _Salome_ was with them. The forgery had been discovered when the painting was re-authenticated.

Neal began with the Titian, who was also one of the artists he was studying for Sherkov's course. Given the amount of time he planned to spend on the painting, he should consider writing about it for his final paper.

The hours passed quickly as Neal moved from one test to another. The background chatter around him barely registered. When he was focused on a painting it was easy to filter out all distractions. Travis, who sat next to him, offered to bring him a coffee. Neal barely noticed it when he returned. He hoped he'd thanked him. When he got around to taking a sip, it was already cold.

The Titian was a seductive masterpiece. Salome was depicted as the ideal of female beauty at the time and she could be for this time too. The opalescence of her skin was striking. How had Titian achieved that? The forger had not been as successful. Salome was holding the head of John the Baptist on a platter. Neal smiled. Symbolic of the Dutchman perhaps? He wished he could make his own forgery of the painting. His would be so much better. Neal brought himself up short, and shaking his head to dispel those wayward thoughts from another time, began analyzing the pigments.

Sometime later, Peter's voice coming from behind him made him jump. "The bullpen was so quiet, I figured you had to be here."

Neal looked up from the microscope, happy to refocus his eyes. Peter was inspecting the paintings. "Do you have any idea how long it's going to take?"

Neal shrugged. "Days, weeks? I've already searched for a hidden signature but haven't found anything. It figures he wouldn't have been that obvious. I'll keep drilling down. Something's bound to pop up."

"Don't forget to pace yourself," Peter admonished. "The Dutchman can be demonic in the way he sucks up your time." He pulled up a chair and rolled over next to Neal at the work table. "I like visiting you here. Your niche has a good vibe." He looked around and pointed to the Raphael. "You've added some new drawings, but I like this one in particular. When'd you draw it?"

"A few years ago." Neal hoped Peter wouldn't probe further. If he told Peter he'd drawn it during the first heady months of his romance with Kate, he might get the wrong idea that Neal was still obsessing over her. He'd made that drawing when he was considering forging a Raphael and stealing the original for her. If he hadn't met Peter in Saint Louis, he would have gone ahead. He had zero regrets that he hadn't stolen the painting, but the drawing was one of his favorites and a reminder of how close he'd come to falling over the edge.

Peter pointed to the watercolor of the ship. "And that's the Dutchman?"

Neal nodded. "He's staying up there till we have him."

"And after we've caught him, you're going to give me that watercolor for my office, right?"

"You got it, partner."

Peter nodded toward the slides he'd prepared. "So explain what you're analyzing."

"It's pretty technical. You sure you want to know?"

"Hey, I'm a technical kind of guy." Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Technical called a halt. "I'll leave you to it. Jones and Diana are researching Klossner, the man who offered the painting up for auction. They'll present their findings at the afternoon briefing." Peter stood up and took a few steps then turned back to face Neal. "Forgot to ask. Did you notice anyone tailing you yesterday or today?"

"No. How about you?"

Peter shook his head. "But I'm not dismissing your suspicions. Don't let your guard down and don't get so engrossed in this you forget to eat." He glanced at his watch. "I'm due at a meeting or we could grab a bite together."

"Just as well. I brown-bagged it."

After Peter left, Neal continued to work on for another hour. When he hit a good break point, he was surprised to see it was already one o'clock. Neal pushed himself up, stretching his back. He'd made plans for lunch. Time to get started.

Yesterday evening during the SFX session, Aidan's questions were a wake-up call. The tutoring he'd provided showed what a big gap there was in Neal's knowledge. As he saw it, there were only two choices. He could somehow survive the course, or admit to his friends—and Peter—he couldn't handle it and drop it. For graduation purposes that would be the safest route, but it would also label him a failure. Neal had decided to give himself one week to prove to himself that he could do it. And if that meant tooling during the lunch hour, so be it. It was déjà vu from his studying for the Columbia entrance exams but this time, it was different. His plan was much better.

Neal headed to the break room and got his lunch bag out of the fridge. His destination was Storeroom 51. Peter had told him about this room last spring. It was a small windowless room off a back corridor that agents used to crash when they needed a break. It was minimally furnished with a desk, a chair, and a sofa. Blankets and a pillow were stored in a filing cabinet. Any agent could claim it and put the _Occupied_ sign on the door.

Travis came out of the lab as Neal walked past with his book and lunch. Falling in step with him, he said, "I recognize your book from last night. Aidan showed it to me at band rehearsal to get my opinion. It's more technical than I would have expected for an introductory course. You get stuck, give me a shout. I might be able to help."

"Thanks, man. I'm not to the stage where I even know the correct questions to ask. I'll hit you up later."

Travis nodded. "I'm going to Columbia tomorrow evening after work. I could give you a lift and we could go over some of the concepts then."

"You meeting Richard?"

"No, our SETI committee meets on Tuesdays. One of the astronomy professors leads it and arranges for meeting space." They stopped at the elevator bank and Travis pushed the _Down_ button. "I wonder . . . Do you think Mozzie would like to attend? His obsession with UFO sightings when we talked on Saturday at the exhibition was, in a word, fascinating."

Last week Neal would have said there was zero chance of Mozzie going to a meeting with a suit. But Mozzie had reached a new rapprochement with Travis at the reception. "You should definitely ask. You want me to call him?"

"No need. He gave me his number."

Neal felt his jaw drop. "He what?"

Travis chuckled. "I was as surprised as you, but I was informed, he was only doing it out of a desire to be the first one I call when the landing takes place."

"Well, that explains everything."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The afternoon briefing was scheduled for three o'clock. By the satisfied look on Diana's face, she and Jones must have made progress. Neal was glad to see someone was. His own investigation was proceeding at a crawl. Just before the meeting, he'd found one possibility that was tantalizing him to the point of seriously considering skipping the meeting. If Travis hadn't rousted him, he might have. Peter would have understood. It wasn't his fault, it was the Dutchman's.

Jones gave the status report on their research. "Diana and I've been combing through Klossner's bank returns and other financial records. Came upon something we think will interest you." Jones flashed a man's photo on the wall projector screen. Neal wasn't familiar with him, but from the way Peter reacted, he must be a very big fish. Neal ticked off his characteristics: broad-shouldered, muscular, clean-shaven, bald, probably in his fifties. The guy had a self-confident smile plastered on his tanned face which made Neal think of Bruce Willis. Anyone whom Peter seemed so impressed with was worth remembering.

"Max Rinaldi," Peter said, letting out a slow exhale.

"That's right, boss," Diana said. "And from the extensive file on him, the department's had a long history with him."

"Longer than the Dutchman," Peter acknowledged. "He's been suspected in mortgage fraud cases going back for twenty years but has always been too slippery to be caught. He's let the bottom feeders on the food chain be charged while he swims away to be a land shark on another transaction. His empire started in New York but has now spread throughout the country."

"In one of the most infamous cases," Travis added, "he was suspected of involvement in a multi-million dollar mortgage fraud scheme out of Miami, which made use of straw borrowers, forged statement forms, and wire fraud. It was finally stopped last year. We haven't fully determined how much he made from that scheme before it was stopped and never had sufficient evidence to indict him."

"This may be the case that finally brings him to justice," Jones said. "A holding company under his umbrella issued a check to Klossner a month ago. We suspect Klossner was acting as an agent for Rinaldi."

Neal turned away from the monitor to Jones. "So what you're saying is that we could make a double play out of this—take down both Rinaldi and the Dutchman?" He raised his eyebrows and gave Peter a Groucho Marx grin. "Count me in."

"One step at a time," Peter cautioned, but by the way his eyes were gleaming Neal could tell his warning was more pro forma than anything else. He probably didn't want to jinx it.

Neal, however, operated on a different principle: once you know the objective there's always a way to achieve it. "It's good to have goals," he fired back. "What's the profile on Rinaldi?"

Diana pulled up photos as she talked. "Has a mansion in Old Westbury on Long Island. Married, one daughter—a senior in high school. The house is a fortress with high walls surrounding the estate. From the reports of past attempts to gain information on him, we know he maintains a well-trained security force— even has trained Dobermans patrolling the property. Penetrating his security measures will be a difficult undertaking."

"During the Miami investigation, we infiltrated his house," Travis said. "The family was away and the place was being rewired for surround sound. I went in with the group. But our efforts didn't result in much. We discovered that Rinaldi keeps his work computer with him. Travels with a laptop that has all his files. His bodyguards protect not only him but also his records. He's currently in Las Vegas attending a real estate convention. Has two bodyguards with him who stay in his suite."

Peter gestured impatiently. "This time's going to be different. Jones, Diana, I want you to pull up every scrap of information you can find on the Rinaldis. There has to be a weakness we can exploit. Travis, bring me some surveillance tactics that are going to work this time. Neal, you keep your focus on the Dutchman. Bring me evidence to help identify him." He added bluntly, "We have extensive files on what doesn't work with Max Rinaldi. Bring me something that does. Stretch your imaginations, people. Go outside the box."

Jones raised a brow. "You're saying we're allowed to pull a Caffrey on this one?"

"If necessary, I may be willing to even go to that extreme." As Neal shrugged triumphantly, Peter fired off a warning shot. "As long as it's legal. Jones, I'm counting on you to verify that it passes the smell test."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: What are the odds that Peter will regret agreeing to a Caffrey solution to take down Rinaldi? I hope you join me to find out. As always, thanks for reading and your comments. The action continues next week in Chapter 7: The Dutchman._

 _Find out more about Angela and her caravan cousins in Caffrey Disclosure, currently being posted by Penna Nomen. Angela's gone from singing in Urban Legend last summer to playing dulcimer in a Celtic fusion band at Columbia, but I'm sure she'll still take time off for some rock sessions at the bar next to Randy Weston's guitar shop._

 _I invented the SFX course but not the description of Prentis Hall. I read that the set designers for the 2002 Spider Man movie visited the basement in order to gather inspiration, so it makes a fitting location for an SFX workshop._

 _I posted this chapter just before Halloween and scattered some references to witches and other spooks of the night. Angela loves Halloween almost as much as I do. Neal was lucky that this story was not set in October, or he might have wound up as someone much scarier than Owen Wilson. I also included a tip of the hat to Mark Sheppard who played the Dutchman on White Collar and who is currently starring as a demon on the TV series Supernatural. Thanks very much to fellow Supernatural fan Penna Nomen for her assistance and wishing all of you a Happy Halloween!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	7. The Dutchman

**Chapter 7: The Dutchman**

 **White Collar Division, January 24, 2005. Monday afternoon.**

During the afternoon briefing, Peter had told Neal to focus on the Dutchman and that's what he intended to do. He still had a few hours remaining in the afternoon before he needed to leave for evening classes.

In the past Neal had always been the forger out to fool the authorities. Now the tables were turned. How skilled was he at unmasking one? He had in his possession not only the Corot painting but also several suspected forgeries by the Dutchman. Could he make a case for the Corot forgery also having been painted by the Dutchman? Neal knew he wouldn't be able to leave the mystery alone till he'd cracked it. This was one time Mozzie would be of limited help. He wasn't the art expert. This was Neal's bailiwick. Solving the mystery of the Dutchman would prove his art chops to the dimwits in D.C. who didn't think they needed an art crimes investigator in New York.

For the time being he put aside the bond forgeries and concentrated on the paintings. He'd decided his best shot at uncovering a tell from the forger would be an analysis of the paint pigments. Starting with the Titian, he was methodically going through the pigments, identifying them by their source. Raman spectroscopy was the best and fastest non-destructive method he knew of, but it was still going to take days of work.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"You're not going to Columbia this evening?"

Startled, Neal turned away from the microscope to see Travis. He already had his coat on and was ready to leave. Neal glanced at his watch and grimaced. Six o'clock. He was going to have to hustle to make his appointment.

"Lost track of time. Thanks. I should have left an hour ago." Neal got busy shutting down his computer.

"I know the feeling," Travis said, helping him to turn off the equipment. "What do you have on tonight?"

"Seminar on abstract expressionism. I'm scheduled to meet Sherkov, my advisor, first." Fortunately Neal had already returned the other materials to the evidence locker. He only had to carry the Titian back. But even with Travis's help, it took thirty minutes before he was on the subway for Columbia. No time to stop and eat, but Neal grabbed a granola bar from the break room on his way out.

He made it to Sherkov's office in Schermerhorn Hall with one minute to spare. Sherkov was sitting at his desk, a large open book in front of him. He'd been examining a plate of a Giorgione painting— _Boy with an Arrow_. Research for the next day's class perhaps. Sherkov had called for the meeting and Neal assumed it was to discuss his coursework, although it seemed too early to discuss his final paper or the next term.

After a few remarks about the Giorgione in front of him, Sherkov switched topics. "Your appraisal of the Corot at Weatherby's was quite impressive. There are few people I know who could have voiced an opinion like that, and none of them is a grad student with only one semester completed. I'm told the Met confirmed your opinion."

"That's right." Neal was taken aback by what Sherkov wanted to talk about. At the time he'd been so focused on the painting, he hadn't thought about how it would look to others. He hadn't stopped to consider the repercussions of a first year grad student demonstrating an expertise with authentication. He'd grown careless. Had he wakened the bear in Sherkov?

"When I asked you for an explanation of how you were able to make that determination, you were unsatisfyingly vague. Perhaps you could make another attempt."

Sherkov wasn't going to be content with simple deflection. But the real explanation—what he'd given Peter—of being schooled on Corot forgery techniques was out of the question. Neal hoped the background supplied by the Marshals would be enough to let the matter drop. "I grew up in Paris and was fortunate to have access to a series of wonderful teachers plus outstanding museums to visit. As I explained when you saw that painting I'd done in the style of Honthorst, my art teachers believed in teaching through copying the old masters. I have an affinity for that."

Sherkov settled back in his leather chair and rocked slowly. "It's more than that surely. The kind of ability you demonstrated to evaluate a painting from the artist's perspective is an innate gift. That brings me to what I'd like to discuss with you. Neal, I'd like to recommend you for the PhD program."

That was startling. Neal had never considered going for a PhD. Getting any kind of degree was still a dream. He hadn't even graduated from high school and was waiting for the first diploma for his wall. Dr. Neal Caffrey?

His shock must have been apparent to Sherkov. "Clearly that wasn't something you were contemplating, but I think you should. While you retrieve your jaw off the floor, allow me to continue. I know many don't feel art history is that relevant to a career in today's society, but for you it's a natural. You could specialize in art authentication. Surely the FBI would support you in your efforts."

"But how I would find the time? Going for a master's has been difficult enough with the hours I'm required to keep."

"You'd be performing research, not taking classes, so your schedule would be much more flexible than what you have now. You already scored high enough on the entrance exams that you won't need to take additional courses in chemistry. That's considered by many to be one of the most challenging aspects to art authentication. In addition, your knowledge of metallurgy fits in well to the program. As you know Columbia only offers a very limited admittance to the program, presently about fifteen students. If you're admitted, you'll receive full funding, including a tuition and stipend. It will be my pleasure to act as your sponsor." Sherkov paused to let his words sink in. "You should consider it strongly. You don't have to tell me immediately, but you should make a decision by mid-March."

Sherkov continued to promote the program to Neal for several minutes, but at the end Neal was still left with mixed emotions. The negatives were staring him in the face. Committing to a program that would probably take three years on top of the two years he'd already signed up for had minimal appeal when he was already chafing to be finished with his master's. On top of that were the other headwinds. How would it affect his work with the FBI? Would he feel too constrained by the demands? Too tied down?

Neal continued to consider Sherkov's proposal during his seminar. Jackson Pollock's abstracts were the topic, but when Neal looked at them, all he saw was an indecipherable vision of his own future. Midway through the seminar he received another demand on his attention when Mozzie texted him: _thrush23690345_.

That roused him from thoughts of a doctorate better than any abstract painting. Once Mozzie had claimed Columbia's network of tunnels as his own private highway system, he'd devised a code for the various tunnel exits. Over the past few months the two of them had conducted a thorough exploration of Columbia's elaborate tunnel system. Mozzie's initial trepidation over possible bacterial residue from the nineteenth century had given way in the face of his overwhelming love for the clandestine routes the tunnels provided. They'd discovered how to access several forbidden tunnel pathways and found a few of the rumored tunnels which had formerly only been hinted at. They could now traverse most of the campus undetected. Mozzie had taken it to the next level by giving Neal an extensive list of codes based on bird names for different types of emergencies and instructed him to commit it to memory. The numbers referred to the location and date. In this case, _2369_ meant the courtyard of Schermerhorn Hall where his seminar was being held, and _0345_ referred to the time of 2115. _Thrush_ was not as severe an alert as _osprey_ but it was bumping against _plover_.

Last Wednesday Mozzie had been incensed about the plight of the yellow-faced bee. What was it now? Had Godzilla been spotted in New York? Neal chastised himself for not taking it more seriously. He realized that lately Mozzie's so-called emergencies had been so flakey, if he ever did have a genuine one, he might have a difficult time getting Neal to believe it. He attributed it to Mozzie not having a legitimate mystery to work on. His mind wandered off into unexplored territory when he had nothing substantive to focus on.

He'd seen Mozzie on Saturday and everything was fine. What could go wrong in forty-eight hours? Neal realized he might as well give up on Jackson Pollock for the evening. Reality was making any reflections on abstracts a non-starter.

As soon as the seminar was over, Neal headed outside. He found Mozzie, bundled up in a Columbia blue rugby knit scarf and knitted hat in the courtyard outside the hall. _Just another student_ , Neal thought with a grin.

Mozzie motioned for him to walk with him through the quad. As if acknowledging Neal's unspoken questions, he said, "Don't mock me, but this could be serious. I received a call today from the Space Suit."

"Space Suit?" Was Mozzie in communication with the International Space Station? But if he'd heard from NASA, surely that would have been coded _tanager_. "You mean Travis?"

"Naturally, the Space Suit," he repeated. "He was elevated to Space Suit from a mere Vulcanized one on Saturday. He asked me if I'd like to go to a SETI meeting with him. You know what that means."

"It means he thought you'd be interested. I knew he was going to call."

"Clever," Mozzie muttered. "An obvious attempt to make the offer seem casual. At first I'd suspected a trap, but then I reasoned Travis wouldn't be their agent."

That was a major breakthrough. Travis had chipped away at Mozzie's concrete wall of mistrust of anyone at the FBI. He'd already warmed up to Peter, now he was doing the same with Travis. "So are you going?"

"This is where it gets tricky, because if the Space Suit's asking _me_ , it's because something big may be on the horizon, big as in apocalyptic, end of the world—"

Neal cut in hastily. "I hardly think that's what Travis had in mind. He didn't appear to be concerned about an alien invasion when we talked."

"How did he seem to you?"

"Oh, I dunno, fine. Normal Travis."

"Did his eyes appear glassy? Did he walk stiffly, as if controlled by someone?" At this, Mozzie started to walk with the jerky motions of an uncoordinated robot. Neal stepped back to enjoy the performance. He could be a hit at a dance party. One of the students passing by actually stopped to clap.

"I'm confident he hasn't been possessed by space aliens," Neal said firmly. "He simply thought you'd enjoy attending the meeting. Where's it being held?"

"Pupin Hall on campus. An astronomy professor, Daniel Leavitt, runs the meetings. I've begun vetting him. On the surface he appears capable. Doctorate from Berkeley. Leavitt's specialty is in cosmic structure. Has written several papers on a pet subject of mine, dark matter. Interesting research into gravitational waves. So far, all well and good but my findings aren't complete."

"Travis offered to give me a lift to Columbia tomorrow. How about joining us for a quick meal first? We could meet at the Emporium."

"Perfect. While you talk, I can assess the Space Suit further. Perhaps run a few non-invasive tests."

"You're a good man, Mozz."

 **White Collar Division, January 25, 2005. Tuesday afternoon.**

"The Dutchman can't hide anymore."

As Neal pronounced his words of triumph, Peter took a moment to study his normally impeccably dressed consultant. They were sitting in his niche in the lab. It was now four o'clock. Neal had already been at work when Peter had arrived at 7:30 a.m. and apparently only rarely had taken a break. He obviously hadn't looked at a mirror or he would have done something about the smudge on his cheek. Neal had taken off his jacket, his tie was loosened, and eyes bloodshot from excessive monitor-staring, but all that was irrelevant compared to the jubilation written all over his face.

Peter had checked in on him a few times over the past couple of days, but aside from lunch breaks and mandatory briefings, Neal had kept to himself, focusing exclusively on the forgeries. His ability to bury himself in his work was oddly reminiscent of Mozzie, although at least he didn't mutter in Latin. It was, when you thought about it, rather astonishing. Here was a guy who if you handed him a mortgage fraud case, would utter theatrical sighs of excessive boredom from merely picking up the file and would spend the rest of the time thinking of ways to get out of the task. But if you gave him an art case, he was a different person. Arriving early, staying late, he had a tenacity to match even Peter's. It was one of many reasons they could relate to each other so well.

"Okay, show me what you got, hotshot," Peter said, rolling over a chair. He refused to let himself get too excited. He was more than half-convinced Neal was too exhausted to think straight, but he didn't want to dismiss it out of hand.

"Hansa," Neal said forcefully and repeated the word to reinforce his point. "Hansa. It's so obvious—we got him now."

What was obvious was that Mozzie's love of obscure topics was rubbing off on Neal. "Hansa? As in the Hanseatic League?" Peter dredged up what little he remembered about the Hanseatic League from his college history course. Medieval merchant guilds somewhere in northern Europe. Maybe Holland? "The Dutchman is connected to the Hanseatic League?"

Neal looked at him, bewildered. "No, Peter, _hansa_ as in hansa yellow. Although now that you mention it, that's an intriguing link. I've been analyzing the paint pigments in the paintings. They're all authentic to the period with one glaring exception—the yellow. It should be cadmium yellow. Instead the Dutchman used hansa yellow. Hansa yellow to the eye looks remarkably similar and has several advantages to cadmium yellow. It's become the yellow of choice for artists, but it behaves differently when mixed and more to the point it was first made in Germany in 1911." Neal eyed Peter expectantly.

"So, you're telling me hansa yellow didn't exist when Corot painted _The Dreamer_?"

"Exactly."

"But we already know the painting is a forgery. How does this help us?"

"The Dutchman not only used hansa yellow for the apron of the girl in the Corot painting but he also used it in the lace filigree on Titian's Salome and the witch's skirt in the Goya. Hell, it's even in two of the bonds that were sent over. The guy's in love with hansa yellow. And not only that, he rushes the aging process. You know what craquelure is, right?"

"Yeah, it's the crackle on old oil paintings."

"That's right. Forging the correct craquelure is incredibly difficult. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. You have to consider the brushwork, the age of the painting, the paints, the canvas, the atmosphere, what conditions it was kept in over the years, usually centuries . . . you get the idea."

"I do. I knew it was difficult but what you're saying makes it sound almost impossible."

Neal shrugged. "To achieve a perfect duplication, I'd have to agree. The best is simply a close approximation. That Vermeer painting I did last fall?"

" _The Woman in Blue_?"

"That's right. It was the best I've ever done, but I couldn't perfectly duplicate the craquelure."

Peter was beginning to understand Neal's obsession with the topic. Neal's painting was now in storage in the Bureau's vault. Peter had wanted to obtain an evaluation on the quality of the forgery and had sent it to D.C. Art Crimes. The verdict from the authentication expert they retained was that it was the best Vermeer forgery he'd ever seen. He didn't mention any issue with the craquelure. Only Neal thought there was a problem with it.

Neal pointed to the craquelure on the Titian. "An art forger tends to develop his own technique to imitate craquelure and in the process, if he's not careful, he creates a distinct, recognizable style. It's not as precise as a fingerprint but can be almost as valid."

"Can you identify the Dutchman's style?"

Neal nodded. "I believe I can. The Dutchman rushes the aging process. He doesn't take the time to verify each layer is dry before adding another one. He disrespects the artist by using inauthentic paints and sometimes inappropriate techniques. The combination of craquelure and hansa means we have him."

"All we need now is the name." Peter laid a hand on Neal's shoulder. "This is very impressive work, Neal."

"Thanks," he said with a tired grin.

"This niche you've carved out for yourself is paying big dividends for us."

"Do you think it will make it easier to get funding for equipment? I could really use some extra resources."

Peter shook his head doubtfully. "If you can justify it by showing the equipment is needed not just for art analysis but for document authentication, we may be able to."

"Couldn't Art Crimes use a branch office in New York?"

"I can talk sometime to Kramer about it, but realistically, I wouldn't get your hopes up. We're in a period of tight budgetary restraints. Look, I know how much you enjoy this kind of work, but you're in White Collar, not Art Crimes. You have to accept that the majority of our cases don't involve art works. You've been lucky to have as many as you have." Peter didn't want to burst Neal's bubble, but he had to accept that in an age of domestic terrorism, art crime was not a high focus for the FBI. The budget was minuscule and what little was available had been allocated to Kramer's group. He could predict in advance what Kramer's reaction would be to a request to share any funds with New York.

Neal winced in frustration. "Would it make any difference if I had a PhD?"

Shocked, Peter countered more sharply than he'd intended to. "You don't even have your master's and now you want to go for a PhD?"

Neal shrugged. "I spoke with Sherkov yesterday. He wants to recommend me for the PhD program at Columbia, specializing in art authentication." Neal proceeded to tell him how the program worked and what Sherkov's thoughts on the subject were.

"Have you decided if you're going to take him up on his offer?"

"No. When I first started Columbia, just going for my master's was a dream. I'd never considered going further. If I had a doctorate, it might be easier to persuade Art Crimes to let me work more cases here, but trying to pursue a PhD while working full time? I don't know if that's possible."

"How much additional time are we talking about?"

"Beyond the master's? Three long years. Supposedly, I wouldn't have to take many additional courses. Mainly I could work on my dissertation. I'd have to take oral exams in the spring of my third year and then would research my dissertation topic." Neal pushed his hair back with one hand. "It's just such a commitment, you know. Is it going to tie me down too much?"

"That might be one of the best things about it—it'd keep you from floating away. It's quite an honor that Sherkov wants to sponsor your candidature. You should give it serious consideration. When do you need to let him know?"

"Mid-March. If I don't want to apply, he needs to have time to support someone else."

"I guess I could get used to calling you Dr. Caffrey, although I don't know if Diana ever will."

Neal laughed. "Has there been any progress with the surveillance of Rinaldi's house?"

Peter shook his head. "Not so far. Jones and Diana are out there now."

Glancing at his watch, Neal said, "I better return these to the evidence locker. I'll have to leave for Columbia soon."

"Don't forget to wash up first unless you want to keep that smudge on your cheek."

Neal's eyes grew wide as he reached for a tissue. "Smudge? No wonder I was getting looks when I went for a coffee refill."

"Maybe you need to install a mirror in your niche? You want a lift to the subway? It's on my way."

"Thanks but I'm going with Travis. He has a SETI meeting tonight at Pupin Hall, and he's taking Mozzie along."

Peter laughed. "I'm looking forward to the report on that encounter."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had never seen Travis's car, and in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, he speculated what kind of vehicle he'd most likely drive. Cars were like dogs. The type owned made a statement about the owner. In Travis's case, maybe a hybrid, like the Honda Insight or the Toyota Prius, or would he go for something sportier? Neal grinned when he saw the silver compact. He'd guessed right—a Saturn Ion. What else would a Space Suit drive? On the drive over to Columbia Neal did his best to prepare Travis. His invitation had thrown Mozzie into a tailspin of consuming curiosity tempered by unadulterated apprehension at the thought of going anywhere with a suit, even if a space suit. On Saturday night Travis had only seen a glimpse of the paranoia he was about to experience.

They were fortunate in finding a parking space on West 110th Street, a short walk away from the Aloha Emporium. "UFOs are but one manifestation of Mozzie's conspiracy theory-oriented brain," Neal cautioned. "There are many others. Stick to safe subjects until you're used to it. The initial shock can be disorienting to the uninitiated."

Travis was skeptical of any issues. "Mozzie's no Klingon. He's much more a Ferengi like Quark. If he ventures too far into another dimension, I'll snap him back with a mind meld."

Neal eyed Travis suspiciously. If anyone else had said that, he'd know they were joking. With Travis, maybe not. Mozzie and he could well be kindred souls. That he already categorized Mozzie as Quark was a good omen.

Travis glanced over at him. "Are you going to enter the art competition at Tac-Con?"

"I hadn't given it much thought. I've never done much with science fiction."

"You should. There's a category for paintings, called 'Close Encounters.' You could use as a theme one of the paintings you made of the night of your kidnapping. Maybe that seascape?"

Neal considered his suggestion. The painting he was talking about showed a starfish monster emerging from a turbulent ocean of chaotic colors and shapes. It had been the image Azathoth had projected onto their cell wall during their kidnapping and was one of a series he'd painted for the Bureau to document the ordeal. He could use the imagery as a starting point and let his imagination run wild.

"I see I've sparked your interest," Travis said with a chuckle.

Neal grinned. "I admit it. I'd planned to attend anyway, if nothing else, to give Richard moral support. Perhaps I should enter the competition."

"You'll need to decide soon," he cautioned. "I shot the video for Richard last week. The deadline for submissions is the fourth of February."

"You have to submit a video?" This was going to be more complicated than he'd anticipated.

He nodded. "They're limiting the competition to only forty applicants in each category and using videos to weed out the candidates. You have to be recorded at work on your art and discuss not only it but other works you've done. They're using the videos to verify an artist isn't cheating by using someone else's work."

Okay, he was hooked. Hearing about the difficulty in being selected made the challenge all the more tempting. For the rest of the walk, Neal quizzed Travis on the details of the submission process. They agreed to meet at his studio on Saturday afternoon when Travis would record him.

When they entered the Emporium, they found Mozzie waiting for them at one of the tables in the café. Neal waved at him as they headed to the counter to place their orders. The Emporium was the only place Neal knew of in New York that served pokes, the Hawaiian version of sashimi. Travis had never tried the dish so they both ordered it. At the Emporium all the pokes came with rice and seaweed salad and were substantial enough for a meal.

They then walked over to join Mozzie at his table. He had an open bottle of honey wine beside him and took a quick sip from his glass when he saw Travis approach.

"Too bad we don't have time to play _Star Trek: Warp Nine_ before the meeting," Travis remarked nonchalantly. When Peter and Neal were held captive by Azathoth, he and Mozzie had kept a long vigil with El and played the board game to help pass the time. "Neal, did I ever tell you how he cheated me out of twelve bars of gold-pressed latinum—"

"I never cheat," Mozzie retorted. "You simply don't have as profound an understanding of the game as I do. Neal, have you ever seen me cheat?"

"Let's see over the past month, I esti—"

"Just as I said, he's never seen me cheat today." While Mozzie continued to debate the finer points of game strategy with Travis, Neal mentally gave Travis points. He'd remembered Mozzie's passion for board games and had taken advantage of it. By the time their orders arrived, Mozzie was as relaxed as Quark in his bar on _Deep Space Nine_. When he saw Travis's order, he was clearly impressed.

Nodding with approval he said, "Tofu poke. You are a connoisseur, Space Suit. Are you a vegetarian?"

Travis nodded. "Space Suit is your designation for me? I'm honored."

He acknowledged Travis's recognition of the high compliment with a complacent tilt of his head. "How long have you been involved with SETI?"

"Since college days. I took several astronomy courses and my professor was from Berkeley which is the center for SETI research. Here in New York, I've been working on the SETI-at-home project where researchers join forces with volunteers who let their PCs be used to crunch data during down times."

"I've been actively engaged in research myself," Mozzie said. "I've been exploring which signals would most likely be used by extraterrestrials."

Travis looked at him with surprise. "Why didn't you join the SETI group earlier? Daniel Leavitt, who runs the program at Columbia, started out at Berkeley and spearheads the effort. Our working group oversees the program for the east coast and liaises with Berkeley."

"How many are in your group?" Neal asked.

"Ten of us meet at least monthly, sometimes more frequently. Most of the work is done at our homes. We perform the initial analysis of the radio transmissions before sending them on to Berkeley."

Mozzie proceeded to quiz Travis about the data they received from radio telescopes and the two were soon immersed in talk of frequencies, hydrogen lines, and something called FRB which Mozzie informed him meant Fast Radio Burst, whatever that was. Neal tried to make a few intelligent comments, but from the condescending looks he was receiving, suspected his best efforts weren't up to snuff.

He finished his meal and still had a few minutes so he left the two radio astronomers to go chat with Maggie. The language of flowers was more his style than astrophysics anyway. Maggie was Billy's daughter and an accomplished florist. She specialized in orchids and Hawaiian tropical flowers which she and Billy grew in greenhouses over the store. Neal had spotted her working at the floral counter on his way in.

Billy intercepted him on his way over. "Thanks for referring us to Angela. She came in this morning and started making sense out of the jumble of honey orders Mozzie had built up. I was afraid she might flee at the sight of them, but she seemed more amused than skittish."

"Angela managed the household accounts for her mom as a teenager. If anyone can make sense of them, she can." Neal knew Angela had excelled in the business program at the University of Washington. He suspected that had been the primary reason her grandfather had been so upset when she switched to ethnomusicology. He couldn't understand why someone who was so good at business didn't want to pursue it.

"When you called me about her, I couldn't believe our good fortune. She came by yesterday afternoon and I showed her around. She seemed particularly interested in our line of honey-based cosmetics."

"Angela and makeup are a match made in heaven."

"I could tell. Maggie has been managing the cosmetics part of the business for us but it's become a major challenge. We had no idea the skin care line would be so popular. Maggie embraced Angela like a long-lost relative when she heard of her interest. Angela's welcome to work here as many hours as she wants."

Maggie was preparing a floral arrangement with dark cobalt violet _Dendrobium_ orchids in the floral nook. She did most of her work in the greenhouses but she'd added a nook in one corner of the store where she could work on her arrangements and also keep an eye on customers if needed. She looked up and smiled when he approached. "Did Billy tell you about Angela?"

Neal nodded. "I gather you two hit it off."

Maggie was enthusiastic in her agreement. "I'd been struggling with the cosmetics as I simply don't have the time for them. Mozzie keeps tossing me another product and telling me to do something with it. So far we've been marketing only face and eye creams, but Leon—he's one of my cousins in Hawaii—sent us a sample of honey lip balm that's very promising, and Angela thinks we could also start a line of Hawaiian honey lip glosses with floral infusions which would be very popular with the student crowd."

Neal smiled. That sounded just like Angela. She'd barely started and already was taking charge. Mozzie's honey business would be in good hands.

Maggie stood back from her arrangement to view the effect. "What do you think?"

"It's glorious. Special order?"

"Yes. I'm doing some preliminary designs for a big order to be delivered on Friday to Long Island. It's for an eighteenth birthday party. I was given instructions to make the flowers romantic and sensual." Maggie tweaked a stem and nodded approvingly. "I think that will fill the bill."

"That violet color will inspire passion in a stone," Neal said. He knew next to nothing about growing flowers but appreciated the artistry with which Maggie made her arrangements. Although not strictly ikebana, they had a definite Asian flavor to them.

"When I talked with Mrs. Rinaldi, she gave me explicit—"

"Wait, who did you say?"

"Mrs. Rinaldi," Maggie repeated, looking surprised. "Lily Rinaldi. Do you know her?"

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: Do you have any advice on whether Neal should go for a PhD? Send them along and I'll make sure he gets them. At this point the negatives and positives are about equally stacked._

 _Next week in Chapter 8: New Alliances, the Columbia crew and Mozzie meet to discuss the yellow-faced bee video, and the White Collar team draws up a plan to take advantage of Maggie's connections._

 _Thanks for reading and your comments and to Penna Nomen for taking time off from Caffrey Disclosure to help. Her story is at such an exciting stage—I hope you're reading it!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	8. New Alliances

**Chapter 8: New Alliances**

 **Federal Building. January 26, 2005. Wednesday morning.**

Peter didn't have high hopes for the Wednesday morning briefing. The surveillance at Rinaldi's mansion was going nowhere fast. Travis had alerted him that they'd been forced to park the van at such a distance from the mansion that gathering any useful intel was highly unlikely. Peter had originally planned to use the briefing to exhort the team to come up with another solution.

As it turned out, Neal and Travis beat him to the punch.

Neal reported on their discovery that Maggie Feng had been hired to prepare the floral arrangements for the daughter's eighteenth birthday. "She's providing the flowers for several rooms in the house as well as individual bouquets for the guests. It's the largest commission she's ever landed."

"Maggie won't mind using FBI agents for help?" Jones asked.

Travis looked over at Neal and raised a brow. "She wasn't exactly thrilled over the prospect," Neal admitted. "After all, her reputation is on the line. The Rinaldi mansion is smack in the middle of Long Island's Gold Coast, and she's been told the guests are a who's who of the local society crowd. Maggie hopes this will be her entry ticket into the market. Steve from the Emporium is her assistant. I asked her if we could supply any helpers, and she's agreed to one 'non-trainable' as driver—"

Travis interjected, "I've already claimed that job."

"And she said she could safely use three more, provided they pass muster. She's already agreed to Mozzie."

"You gotta be kidding," Peter said.

"You haven't seen Mozzie around flowers. He has a delicate touch," Neal replied, maintaining a straight face. "Maggie's also quite willing to have my assistance. There's room for one more. Does anyone here have a hidden flair for flowers?"

Eyes turned to Diana, who immediately held up a cautionary hand in protest. "Oh no, don't even think it. Plants die when I get near them."

Jones rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat. Peter looked at him, astonished. "Jones, is there something you haven't told us?"

"My aunt has a garden shop," he confessed. "When I was a kid, I used to earn extra money by helping out. If I haven't forgotten it all, I could probably fake it well enough for Friday."

The plan they'd devised sounded simple enough on the surface. While helping to decorate the house, they would conduct as extensive a reconnaissance as possible.

Travis detailed how he and Mozzie were going to plant bugs in the flower arrangements. "He and I are meeting tomorrow to go over bug placement. The main concern is if the house is already outfitted with wireless detection finders. Given the level of precautions Rinaldi takes, I expect that to be the case. Each area will need to be scanned before deployment." Peter was surprised to see Travis so comfortable with the thought of working with Mozzie. Had the two of them bonded at the SETI meeting?

Diana echoed the concern he was feeling. "I've never met this guy, but if what I've heard is correct, are you sure he can be trusted?"

"For this kind of job, he'll be fine," Neal assured her.

She didn't appear convinced but didn't press him on it. "While you boys were out playing with flowers, Jones and I have made progress on the Rinaldi home front. Max Rinaldi is due back in town tomorrow just in time for the birthday bash. Yesterday, Jones and I pretended to be moving in to the area and talked with a neighbor who was out getting her mail. She wasn't very responsive till Diana started name-dropping about her famous relative, Billy Joel," Jones added.

Neal nodded approvingly as Diana continued, "Rinaldi dotes on his daughter. Reportedly caters to her every whim. Relations with his wife aren't as smooth."

"Maybe the neighbor simply doesn't like them," Jones added, "but she claimed Lily was bored and hinted at scandals."

Peter made a note. They might be able to exploit that weakness. "What about Rinaldi? Does he play around too?"

"We're looking into it," Jones said. "This is his second marriage. We haven't found any documented infidelity, but he's often away from home on business trips. There's plenty of opportunity for someone with a wandering eye. We'll do more digging."

"Make that a priority," Peter said and asked for suggestions.

"I'd like to make one for Friday," Travis said. "I know we don't normally adopt disguises, but Neal has one available and I think we should take advantage of it." Travis passed around a photo and explained how Richard had created the look for his class.

When Diana handed him the photo, Peter studied the blond long-haired beach bum. "This looks like … who was the fellow in _Shanghai Noon_?"

Neal's eyes widened. "You saw _Shanghai Noon_?"

Embarrassed, Peter muttered. "There was no game on. It was late at night. . . ."

"So, was it the western setting or the martial arts that you enjoyed most? Because I thought it was a trailblazer in its—"

"Focus, dude," Peter rumbled.

Jones was laughing at the photo. "Richard's not bad. This does look like Owen Wilson. Can you talk like him too?"

"Don't encourage him, Jones," Peter interrupted. "Even so, I like your idea, Travis. Neal may need to go in again and this keeps our options open. How about you, Jones? Want a disguise?"

"What about some facial hair? A mustache?" Neal asked. "That can do wonders in changing an appearance." At the mention of mustache, Peter's warning bell dinged, but Neal didn't appear to be teasing him about his own disastrous attempt to grow a mustache.

"A wig too," Diana suggested. "Make it a short Afro."

Jones swiped his buzz cut with a hand as he chuckled. "I could give it a try, but Richard won't have the time to work on both Neal and me before we need to leave."

"Janet told me she's willing to help on any project," Neal said. "She enjoyed working with us so much for the gaming convention last October that I think she's adopted White Collar as her pet charity."

"Just what I need," Peter said with a sigh.

"Costumes are your destiny. You might as well stop fighting it," Neal said. "Wait till she transforms you into a Viking, and then you'll change your tune."

 **Sterling-Bosch Headquarters, London. January 26, 2005. Wednesday afternoon.**

Sara looked up from her keyboard to check the view from her window. It was almost four o'clock and the glass was still being pelted by raindrops. She looked down gloomily at her new peacock-blue patent Kate Spade heels. She should have known better than to wear them today. Well, there was no help for it. She would have to keep working at the office till the rain stopped, no matter how long it took. She wrote herself a reminder to pick up a pair of running shoes—preferably in fuchsia or turquoise—to leave in the office for occasions such as this and resumed working her way through the deluge of emails which had piled up during her absence.

Sara had arrived back in London the day before and was still feeling the effects of jet lag. She'd soothed the powers that be at Weatherby's till her jaw ached from making sympathetic sounds of commiseration. Honestly she didn't blame them. To have the mistake pointed out by a member of an art class was, well, flat-out embarrassing. It had been quite a challenge to invent excuses for something she found inexcusable herself. She didn't find it much of a consolation that art works were constantly being reauthenticated, and that the number of forgeries which had been displayed at museums for decades—sometimes centuries—was staggering. Neal was right. The Sterling-Bosch authenticator should have realized the Corot was a forgery.

A brief knock on the door was quickly followed by the door opening and Bryan walking in. "Welcome back! I heard you'd been through the wars with this one." He was holding two cups of coffee. Sara recognized the cups. They were from her favorite coffee bar. He pulled up the extra chair in her tiny office and put the coffee on the desk. "Thought you could use this."

Sara removed the lid and the heavenly aroma of macadamia nut coffee wafted up. "You're a lifesaver," she said with a grateful smile. "You went out in the rain for me?"

"For you, no sacrifice is too great . . . and there's more." Bryan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bag of biscotti, and not just any biscotti, but chocolate and pistachio biscotti from Mario's Café. Bryan did know how to spoil a girl.

He'd been in Paris when the news broke about the Corot forgery. Sara had talked with him on the phone shortly afterwards, but this was their first chance to discuss it in depth. They went over the findings together. Somehow, munching biscotti dipped in coffee made the events of the past week seem not quite as bleak.

"Neal was impressive," Sara said. "I knew he was an artist and studying for his master's, but I'd no idea of his level of expertise. No wonder the FBI hired him to be a consultant. You know, I'd wondered about that. I still find it hard to believe—he seems too young to have accumulated all that knowledge."

"You're right. That does appear to be a contradiction," Bryan remarked thoughtfully. "While you were away, I looked into the authenticator for the painting. The work was done by one of our experts in France. He's affiliated with the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Dijon. He's worked on several authentications for us. Since I was already in Paris, I went to see him. As you can imagine, he was mortified and abject in his apologies for not having known the history of that colorman's stamp. The man has done excellent work for us up to now. But in light of this, I doubt we'll ever use his services again."

"Do you think we should reevaluate the other work he's done for us? Perhaps investigate his background?"

"I'm glad to see we're on the same wavelength. I'm heading back for Paris at the end of the week and will see that it's done correctly." Bryan propped his elbows on her desk and leaned forward, his expression turning distinctly un-businesslike. "I missed you. Paris was a dull place without you. I kept thinking about New Year's when you were there with me."

Sara smiled. "I'll never forget that either." Over the Christmas holiday, Bryan had surprised her with a last minute trip to Paris. Their suite had a panoramic view of the Eiffel Tower. They'd celebrated New Year's with Dom Perignon while watching the fireworks display from the balcony of their suite. She found out later they'd been lucky. Fireworks at the Eiffel Tower were not an annual tradition. That New Year's there were fireworks going off both outside and inside the hotel suite. It was as if Bryan was trying to erase the memory of the Fourth of July fireworks she'd seen in Baltimore when she was with Neal on Graham Winslow's sailboat. No, that wasn't fair. Bryan was simply trying to give her the experience of a lifetime. She'd been the one comparing the fireworks. Dom Perignon and the Eiffel Tower versus a picnic on a sailboat—it should have been a no-brainer.

Bryan brought her back to the present. "How about us going out to dinner tonight? We could catch up."

"It's tempting but I'm afraid I wouldn't be good company. Can I take a rain check? And in view of what's going on outside, that seems an appropriate term."

Bryan shook his head disapprovingly. "You shouldn't have to cook. I could pick up something and come to your place. Give you a massage afterwards? I'm told I'm very good."

Bryan's massages were not just good, they were too good. "I'm sorry but I really am drained."

"All right, tomorrow then. I insist."

"Looking forward to it." Sara held the smile till he left her office but it was almost a relief to see him go. At least he hadn't brought up the topic she was dreading. If she were honest, she'd have to admit that's why she resisted his invitation. Bryan had been giving far too many hints not to guess what he had in mind, and that was one complication she didn't need in her life right now.

 **Federal Building. January 26, 2005. Wednesday noon.**

Midday on Wednesday, Neal pulled his sandwich out of the fridge in the break room, refilled his coffee mug, and headed for Storeroom 51. For the past few days he'd been spending his lunch breaks with his new best friend, his textbook on computational art. Had his life actually devolved to this? And Sherkov wanted him to go for his doctorate? He must be insane to even contemplate it. Spending his life buried in textbooks had not been in his master plan **.**

When he got to the room, he found a sticky note posted on the door, saying: _Go away_. Neal shrugged. Not a surprise that the room had already been claimed. He'd been lucky it hadn't happened more often. He retraced his steps and entered a small conference room close to the elevators. That room also held memories. He'd camped out there to study for his entrance exams to Columbia. That was before Peter had filled him in on the glories of Storeroom 51. The conference room was much more spacious than the storeroom, had windows, and possessed much better ambiance for daydreaming. Determined not to fall into that trap, Neal sat with his back to the windows, got out his sandwich, opened his book, and started reading: _The statistical self-similarity of the stochastic pattern can be expressed through iterated function systems._ . . .

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter walked down the hallway. He'd looked for Neal at his desk and in his lab niche, but both were vacant. He could have simply called him on his cell phone, but that would have been too easy. Okay, even if it was Wednesday and not Tuesday Tails day, he still liked a little challenge. He'd caught Neal going into Storeroom 51 lately. If it were vacant, it'd eliminate one area. If it were occupied, he wouldn't go in but at least he'd know. But Peter didn't have to go that far down the hallway. He spotted Neal through the glass doorway of the second conference room he'd passed. He had an open book before him and was reading, his chin propped up on one elbow. He had a notepad beside him, and was drawing what appeared to be random doodles while reading.

Peter stuck his head in. "You mind an interruption?"

Neal looked up, a grin of relief spreading over his face. "Glad you showed up. If you hadn't, I was going to have to go look for one."

"I assume that's your computational art textbook?" Peter asked as he sat down across from Neal at the table. "Did you decide if you're going to drop the course?"

"Guess I'll stick with it." He spread his hands ruefully. "I've invested too much into it to quit now."

Peter nodded with satisfaction. "Good for you. You're not taking the easy way out."

He grinned. "Surprising, isn't it? Aidan and Travis appear to have made my survival their mission in life. I can't give up on them."

"Travis is the reason I was looking for you. He threw me a curve ball when he included Mozzie in the plans. Is that really necessary?"

"We're only going to have a very limited window to operate within. I won't have the time to conduct a thorough search of both the upstairs and downstairs. And you know Jones isn't the best at avoiding detection while stealing through rooms."

"You used the word, not me. Will Mozzie object to being frisked afterwards?"

"Maybe not . . . as long as it's not by a suit. Mozzie's going to be on his best behavior. He doesn't want to damage Maggie's reputation, but I'll verify nothing leaps into his pockets without him being aware of it."

"Thanks. I have to admit it was a little disconcerting to hear Travis casually mention that he and Mozzie would prepare the bugs together. How'd that happen?"

Neal shook his head, looking as perplexed as Peter felt. "You got me. I called Travis over when Maggie mentioned Lily Rinaldi and Mozzie came with him. They'd just spent several minutes discussing radio astronomy. When I had to leave for my class, Travis was asking Maggie about the possibility of using bugs in her arrangements. Mozzie and he must have cemented their new alliance over surveillance electronics." Neal gathered up his book and coffee mug and stood to leave. "Mozzie and the Space Suit … it takes a little getting used to."

Peter rose and opened the door. "Is that what Mozzie calls him? Does Travis know?"

"He considers it a badge of honor. Travis told me this morning that Mozzie was quite entertaining at the SETI meeting."

As they walked down the corridor back to the bullpen, Peter asked, "Is the working group aware of his—how should I put it—nonconformist views?"

"I warned Travis. But according to him, Mozzie is by no means the first SETI participant to bring his personal obsessions to the table. And he does have expertise in communications signals. If anyone can spot an extraterrestrial in our midst, my money's on Mozz."

 **Columbia University. January 26, 2005. Wednesday evening.**

After work, Neal headed to his studio at Columbia. Aidan had called for a meeting with Neal, Richard, and Mozzie for later that evening. It was the first time for the four of them to meet as one group since the con to take down Fowler in November. They now had a new mission. No diamonds to recover this time, but you could say their objective was even higher. Instead of helping a queen, they were going to the rescue of an endangered bee. They'd selected Watson Hall for their first session, since both Neal and Richard had their studios there and it was close to a tunnel entrance for Mozzie.

Neal intended to make use of the time before the meeting to work on his paintings for the sci-fi convention. He thought about the concept during the subway ride. How much should he diverge from the original representations? He and Peter had discussed that the elaborate staging of the house where they'd been held resembled a movie set. It was conceivable Azathoth himself had a connection to the film industry. If so, would he attend the convention? What would his reaction be if he saw Neal's paintings?

Neal's studio was adjacent to Richard's and as he walked past, he glanced in through the open door. Richard had piled a large mound of clay on his worktable and was molding it into a rough shape. Another sculpture which appeared to be finished was on the far end of the table. When Richard spotted him, he called him in.

"What do you think of my latest creature?" he asked, gesturing to the finished sculpture.

"Definitely not of this world," Neal pronounced as he examined the bizarre shape in front of him.

"Then I've succeeded," Richard said with satisfaction. "I haven't decided whether to enter one or two creatures in the competition at Tac-Con. I not only have to sculpt it but give it a name and describe its habitat and life history. It's not mandatory, but I'm also going to paint a backdrop of its world which should help sell the piece."

"So what do you call this fellow? It looks a little like a lumbering bear to me."

"Apt description. I drew my inspiration from tiny creatures called tardigrades that live in the water. Some call them waterbears."

"But this isn't so tiny." Richard's sculpture was about three feet long, and its tubular mouth made it look like it was ready to suck humans, not microorganisms. Richard had managed to give it an expression that was menacing and oddly wistful at the same time, as if before eating its prey it would apologize for what it was forced to do.

Richard stood back and studied it, tilting his head. "It is looking rather fierce." He chuckled. "Maybe it eats tribbles? I'll have to ask Travis how to say _Tribble-eater_ in Vulcan."

"What's this other creature you're sculpting?"

"This is the concept." Richard handed him a sketchpad. His drawing showed the creature from several perspectives. It appeared to be a wafer-thin kite with eyes in the center. "I'd seen a photo of baby stingrays and they inspired me to make something that lives in a low-gravity world where creatures float in the atmosphere almost like kites. But sculpting something so thin presents a real challenge." He glanced over at Neal. "I'm glad to hear Travis persuaded you to enter the painting competition. We can stress together. Do you already have a concept?"

Neal described what he had in mind then left Richard to his creatures so he could begin the work of roughing out his paintings. Richard was so far along, and he hadn't even started. That stress Richard was talking about was already hitting him.

The time passed all too quickly. Neal had barely roughed out the designs on canvas when Mozzie and Aidan arrived for the meeting. Mozzie had transformed himself into his vision of a film director for the occasion, complete with French beret, turtleneck, and long flowing scarf. All he needed was a beard to look like Francis Ford Coppola. Somewhere Mozz had acquired a director's clapboard and had marked it up with _YFB Scene 1, Take 1_. But if he thought the others were going to toe the line while he played director, he was in for a rude awakening.

Aidan set the tone with his greeting. "Happy to have you on board, Mozz, but remember there's only one director for this video, and that's me. This is my course and my grade that's on the line."

Mozzie eyed him gloomily for a long moment. "Oh, very well. Do you want my clapboard?"

"No, you can keep it. You can be in charge of clapboards for this video."

Appearing somewhat mollified, Mozzie pursued the negotiation. "And the megaphone?"

Aidan huffed. "You can keep it as long as you don't use it."

Taking the hint, Mozzie stopped pressing before asking about the director's chair which undoubtedly would have been the next item on his list. "So, what's your plan, Herr Direktor?"

"For my animation course, I need to pull together a fifteen-minute short on any subject."

"A public service short is bound to win you points for your civic-mindedness," Richard noted.

"Not to mention, Keiko thinks it's cool I'm working with insects," Aidan said. "She was entranced with Janet's designs and suggested we consult with Janet for colors and design options."

"I assume you've confirmed you can have others help you?" Neal asked.

"That was the first thing I checked. I'm permitted to pull together a team, as long as the actual animation is mine. Several others are also coercing their friends to help." Aidan paused and looked over at Neal and Richard. "Can I count on you two for the artwork? Once you've prepared the designs, then I'll digitize them for the animation."

"Neal and I've already discussed it," Richard said. "I'm going to design the characters—"

"—and I'll prepare the backgrounds," Neal added.

"Which I'll then convert into computer generated imagery," Aidan said, "and Neal, I know you'll appreciate this—I can employ fractal modeling techniques for the CGI to make them more realistic."

Neal groaned. "Again with the fractals?"

Mozzie piped up, "I hereby volunteer to liaise with Janet. What's our target audience?"

"Since it's an animation, I think we should aim young," Aidan replied, "but I don't want it to be some cutesy cartoon character flying among the flowers. He needs to be edgy and cool."

"In other words, flamboyant with panache—like me," interjected Mozzie.

Aidan wisely ignored that comment. "I want it to make a powerful statement. It's possible I may use it for the May exhibition so this can't be a trite cartoon."

While the others tossed around ideas, Neal got out a sketchpad and began drawing. His latest creation got the better of him and he broke into a laugh which caused the others to stare at him. "Sorry, but when Mozzie first came to me about the yellow-faced bee, I imagined it starring in horror movies: _Godzilla versus the Yellow-faced Bee_ , _Attack of the Killer Yellow-faced Bees_ , and so on. How about turning him into a superhero? Yellowface, the Masked Avenger?"

"Yes!" said Aidan as Richard broke out in laughter. "Like the Green Hornet but better. Masked crime fighter takes on the forces of evil threatening its habitat."

"We could even put a romantic spin on it," Richard said. "Make the queen a love interest."

Mozzie squinted as he framed an imaginary scene in the air with his hands. "Yes, I can see it— Yellowface, the noble knight defending his queen."

"It'll be like _The Three Musketeers_ , but better," interrupted Aidan. "Yellowface could use his stinger like a sabre. His body would act as the grip and his stinger, the blade." As Aidan described the motions, he began scribbling notes.

"This could go global," Mozzie mused, his face assuming a dreamy expression. "Comic book franchises, lunch boxes, cartoon contracts, movies. . . ."

"Simmer down, Francis," Neal cautioned. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Have you thought about entering it at Tac-Con?" Richard asked Aidan. "They have a special competition for videos."

By his shocked look, clearly Aidan hadn't. "Prepare it in a month? I don't see how it'd be possible. Although maybe a shorter version? How quickly could we pull something together?" They got out their calendars to compare schedules. It was going to be tight, but on the plus side if they could get most of the heavy lifting done early in the term, they wouldn't have to deal with it during the crunch time for final papers and the May exhibition. Together they hashed out the details and jotted notes about the various components needed—sound effects, music, voicing. Aidan had been experimenting with a digital animation software package which would help speed up the process.

"Who's going to voice Yellowface?" Neal asked.

Richard and Aidan jointly pointed their fingers at him. "You're the romantic knight. You have to be Yellowface."

Neal couldn't help breaking out in a grin. The Masked Avenger? He'd never played a superhero before.

"What about the script?" Mozzie asked impatiently. "All this is unimportant. Without a script, we're dead in the water."

Neal, Richard, and Aidan exchanged glances, and left it to Aidan to speak up, "That's your department, Mozzie."

"Mine?" he squeaked.

"You're the master at assimilating a role, whether it's a paper file or a mad scientist," Neal encouraged. "Who else can better envision the hopes and the dreams of the yellow-faced bee?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The group had worked late into the night conceptualizing ideas for the video, but when Thursday morning came, it was time to put aside the yellow-faced bee and return to the Dutchman.

Neal planned to spend the morning in the lab, writing up his analysis of the Dutchman's techniques. On the way to work he'd stopped off at the Emporium and obtained from Maggie a floor plan of the rooms to be decorated as well as a copy of her master list of the arrangements to be taken over to the Rinaldi house. When Travis saw Neal had a list of plants, he quickly snagged a copy for himself, muttering something about the need to customize bugs. He and Neal were meeting Mozzie and Maggie at the Emporium in the afternoon to finish the surveillance preparations.

Midmorning, Jones, in his role of designated lead for the Friday op, came to the lab to meet with Neal and Travis to go over their assignments for the next day. With his typical thoroughness, he had prepared timelines for Neal and Travis to follow. Neal scanned it quickly when he received it and then put it aside. Once the op started, the timeline would become largely irrelevant. As a former Navy man, Jones should understand the need to adjust sails to take advantage of unexpected wind shifts.

"Any questions on tomorrow?" Jones asked.

Neal saluted him. "Only one, Commander. There's no indication on here when you're seeing Janet. Have you talked with her?"

"Don't worry, Ensign. I'm carrying through. I've already made the arrangements with Janet. She's scheduled an appointment for me with one of her makeup artists. You'll have the opportunity to see the new me when we rendezvous at the Emporium at zero eight hundred sharp."

When Jones left, Neal returned to writing his report. He'd been amused at Jones's smug reaction to being called Commander. Wonder what it would have been if he'd known he had Yellowface, the Masked Avenger, in his squadron?

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: Many thanks to all of you who commented about Neal going for a PhD. Your perspectives were fascinating and gave Neal and me much to think about. This will be a discussion topic for him and Peter as well as with his friends at Columbia. Mozzie will undoubtedly want to weigh in._

 _If Neal decides to accept Sherkov's offer, I don't think anyone needs to worry that it will change Neal's essential nature. The con artist in him may view this as the perfect cover for whatever he chooses to do in the future. Klaus Mansfeld, Neal's mentor in Geneva, was a strong advocate for Neal obtaining degrees, and it wasn't because he wanted to turn him into an academic scholar. Neal could view taking Sherkov up as a high-stakes gamble with an enormous payout which would make up for the constraints on his time. On the other hand, Neal prizes his ability to take flight at a moment's notice and slip into another personality if needed. How will that be impacted? By the end of the story he'll make a decision._

 _For the moment, though, he'll need to focus on the Dutchman. Next week in Chapter 9: Say It With Flowers, the team pays a visit to the Rinaldi mansion and Mozzie gives Jones a new nickname._

 _If you'd like to revisit why Sara finds it so hard to forget the 4th of July fireworks in Baltimore, you can find the account in Penna Nomen's Caffrey Disclosure, Chapters 18 and 19: Fireworks._

 _Thanks once again to Penna Nomen for sprinkling this chapter with her beta magic!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	9. Say It With Flowers

**Chapter 9: Say It With Flowers**

 **The Aloha Emporium. January 27, 2005. Thursday afternoon.**

"You're positive this won't injure the orchids?" Maggie studied uneasily the array of electronic gear Travis had laid out on her workbench.

Since arriving at the Emporium, Neal's main role had been to smooth the waters between Maggie and her orchids on the one hand and Mozzie and Travis on the other. They'd gathered on the second floor of the Emporium where the greenhouse and Maggie's workroom were located. Maggie had the floor plan of the mansion spread out in front of her and was finalizing the flower placement. The counters were filled with flowers with many of the arrangements already assembled.

Maggie was unique among New York florists in her use of living orchids for arrangements. By incorporating the entire orchid plant in her designs, she could provide rarer orchids without having to sacrifice them. The customer in effect rented flowers for the occasion. It was a marketing technique that was attracting a growing clientele and also was ideal for White Collar's purposes. For the Rinaldi party, Travis and Mozzie were turning the orchids into floral spies, equipping them with tiny bugs which would be removed when the plants were retrieved on Sunday. Once the bugs had been placed in the arrangements, Neal's assignment was to paint them to blend in perfectly with the plants.

Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Neal turned around to see Peter walk in. "I wanted to check out this production for myself," Peter explained.

Travis and Mozzie looked up briefly then resumed their work. Peter approached Neal, asking in a low voice, "Everything going okay?" with a nod to the two of them.

"They've been maintaining a running dialogue about listening devices. If I could understand more of what they were talking about, I'm sure it would be an education. I'm here primarily to act as a facilitator, but they don't need me."

"Not true," Maggie retorted. "I rely upon you and particularly your artistic eye." Wiping her hands on her garden apron, she showed Peter her diagrams for the events.

"What's your strategy?" Peter asked Neal.

"There are enough of us that we hope to confuse the staff so they won't notice us sneaking into rooms not being decorated. Mozzie will search the upstairs while Jones, Maggie, and Steve stay in the event rooms. I'll case out the ground floor. We're taking extra bugs to plant. The decision will be made based on how much detecting equipment they have in place."

"I suspect you're not going to have much luck. The orchids in the dining room will be our best bet. But we know Rinaldi's so security-conscious even those bugs may not be able to be activated."

"Don't give up, Suit," Mozzie called out without looking up. "With the cell phones everyone carries, a tight situation such as the dining room could provide so much interference that they may not be able to monitor it."

That's our hope, anyway," Travis added. "If there's a detector in the dining room, I've given Jones a device to plant which will send us a signal to activate the bugs when the detector's turned off."

Mozzie's nose wiggled when Travis mentioned the device. "Don't you need me to examine and test it before we go in the field?"

Travis pondered the question. "I already tested it. However I might be willing to exchange tips if you'd let me have a look at your superheterodyned amplitude spectrum analyzer."

"I can't be bought, Space Suit," Mozzie scoffed as he tweaked a bug into position.

Travis raised a brow. "Not even if I indoctrinate you into the inner strategies of SETI?"

Mozzie wavered, tweezers in air. "Including the Air Force confidential reports from Project Blue Book?"

Peter rolled his eyes, listening to the two of them. "Obviously, two of a kind. I'm going to take off. El knew I was coming and prepared a shopping list."

Mozzie jerked his head around. "That better include honey wine."

"Two cases," Peter assured him. He turned to Neal "Don't forget, I expect to see you as Owen Wilson tomorrow after the op. The bullpen needs to have the opportunity to evaluate the full effect."

"I'll make sure Jones stays in character too. Richard's meeting me early tomorrow before he heads for work to apply the makeup. Tonight Mozzie and I are conducting research in preparation." He paused and called over to Mozzie, "Nine o'clock okay?"

"Perfect. June wants to help too."

"What kind of research are you talking about?" Peter asked.

Mozzie peered at him over his glasses. "On the path to enlightenment if you wish to be sure of the route, close your eyes and walk in the dark."

Peter pondered that gem and made the safest reply possible under the circumstances. "Right. I'll leave you to it."

 **Neal's loft. Thursday evening.**

"I could smell the popcorn as I came upstairs."

When Neal returned home from Columbia that night, he entered his loft to find Mozzie and June had already staked out positions on his couch. Dumping his backpack next to the dining table as he greeted them, he added, "I hope you didn't start without me."

"I wouldn't let him," June replied. "Mozzie has been educating me on the plight of the yellow-faced bee. I suspect you're already quite well informed."

Neal nodded confirmation, happy to have missed it.

"Help yourself to wine," Mozzie said. "There's an open bottle in the fridge. I also replenished your stock." Neal couldn't resist a smile. He may not have been paid in cash for his assistance with Mozzie's honey business, but the perks more than made up for it. Not only had Mozzie's consumption of Neal's wine dropped dramatically, but he was also keeping him supplied in honey wine.

"Mozzie told me about your plans to portray a surfer-dude," June said. "Do you have your clothes ready?"

Neal hung up his coat. "Yep. I knew there was a reason why I needed to buy a Hawaiian shirt in Honolulu last month, and it goes with Maggie's Hawaiian florist theme. The flip flops and board shorts will have to wait for warmer weather, though." Neal went to the fridge to retrieve the bottle of wine. He poured himself a glass and topped off June and Mozzie's glasses.

June browsed through the selection of DVDs spread out on the cocktail table. "Mozzie, what do you suggest we start off with?"

"For training in Owen Wilsons's voice, I advise that classic _Shanghai Noon._ "

Neal nodded his approval. "Excellent. Afterwards I should loan it to Peter. It's one of his favorite movies."

"Really?" June asked. "I wouldn't have imagined that Peter was a fan of goofball westerns."

"He's a man of many hidden interests," Neal said. "I'm making a study of them. Anything else? If we cut out the action sequences, the dialogue scenes won't take very long."

"Next up is _Bottle Rocket_. Highly instructive on many levels. Seventy-five year heist plan—Neal, you'll want to take notes—elaborate escapes, it features Owen Wilson and his brother. You may find it inspiring for a future caper with Henry."

"Didn't they wind up in prison?"

"Ah, but your plan would be so much better . . . and you wouldn't need seventy-five years to carry it out."

 **Aloha Emporium. January 28, 2005. Friday morning.**

On Friday morning, Richard accomplished his SFX magic on Neal in much less time than he'd taken on Sunday. All the practicing must have paid off. When Richard headed to his day job as an investment analyst, Neal, aka surfer-dude, took off for the Aloha Emporium, a heavy jacket over his Hawaiian shirt.

Since Maggie's van didn't have space to accommodate both the flowers and all the people who were going, they were also taking one of the FBI vans. Travis had arranged for a skin of her logo—Aloha Flowers and a spray of orchids—to be applied to a side panel. Probably the first time orchids had ever been displayed on a FBI van.

Neal looked over at Jones when they pulled up in front of the mansion. "Dude, you ready to roll?"

Jones smoothed his mustache. "Is it askew?" He was wearing a slouchy knit beanie over his short Afro. Janet's makeup artist had also given him a short stubble beard.

"No, it's perfect. You're rocking it." The facial hair gave Jones a hard-edged, hip appearance that even the gardener's apron he was wearing did nothing to dispel.

Travis turned off the ignition and swiveled in the driver's chair to study the two of them. "Next time you should go for Klingon," he advised Jones.

"Which Star Trek look is best for me?" Neal asked.

Travis shook his head discouragingly. "Sorry, you're not a good fit. You're more a Luke Skywalker. It's hard to picture you in any kind of uniform."

"You might be surprised. I was supposed to have been a very believable admiral in the Royal Navy." When Jones flashed him a startled look, Neal added quickly, "All pure rumor and speculation, of course. We ready to go?" Mustache and surfer-dude makeup aside, they made a professional-looking crew. They were all wearing forest-green gardener's aprons emblazoned with the Aloha Flowers logo. The large apron pockets provided convenient hiding spots for their specialized gear.

Neal had done his due diligence on Old Westbury. Situated on Long Island's Gold Coast, the village was known for its opulent estates and country club living. The Rinaldi mansion was no exception. The English-style stucco manor sat on four acres behind a high brick wall. The vans had been given permission to park in the front courtyard rather than use the service entrance.

They had a window till eleven to decorate the house, which didn't leave much free time for snooping. While the others worked downstairs, Mozzie would case the upstairs. Jones was in charge of verifying the location and status of any wireless detection emitters. Jones wore an earpiece, hidden by his beanie, to communicate with Travis. Neal was slated to handle the reconnaissance of the main floor.

The inside of the mansion exuded glitz on an opulent scale. The upholstered furniture was covered in velvet and silk brocades. From the pseudo-nineteenth century mahogany furniture to the oriental rugs, it was clear that Max Rinaldi wanted to show he was made of money. Numerous paintings hung in ornate gilt frames on the walls. Neal earmarked them for closer inspection at the first opportunity.

Minimal staff was there to bother them. Lily Rinaldi had already told Maggie she'd be out and the daughter was at school. A caterer's truck had pulled up at the back entrance just after their arrival. Apparently most of the staff were working in the kitchen on the evening's menu.

Neal picked up a large flower arrangement and quickly walked through the ground floor rooms as he searched for Rinaldi's office. He located it easily in the back of the house adjacent to an indoor patio. The massive walnut desk made the room's purpose obvious. A printer and some other peripherals were on a side table but, as expected, the computer itself was missing. A trivial matter to pick the locked desk. Neal found a few bills which he photographed, but otherwise the desk was unusually empty. The drawers contained normal office supplies. No hidden compartments. No papers taped under the drawers. The only files appeared to be of household records. Turning his attention to the built-in bookcase, Neal rapidly scanned through the leather-bound volumes. Most of them had barely been opened.

More interesting was the collection of photographs in silver frames. Mandy was obviously her father's pride and joy. She appeared in all the photos. Many of them were of her and her dad. A few also had his wife. Several of the photos showed Mandy in dance attire. From the different ages represented, she must have studied dance since she was a young child.

A large Renoir was hanging in the office. Neal studied it at length. It was a copy of the _Dance at Bougeval_ and showed a couple dancing at an open-air café. The focal point of the painting, the faces of the couple, was enhanced by the contrast between the woman's flame-orange bonnet and the man's yellow straw hat. The original was at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, but this was an excellent reproduction. Neal took out a magnifying glass to examine the brushwork technique. He longed to examine the man's straw hat, but the large painting was hung at a height above his reach. Neal darted to the door and checked the outside. No one in the hallway. He moved the desk chair over to the painting and jumped on the chair to examine it. Retrieving tweezers and a small storage jar from his apron pocket, he delicately scraped a minute amount of the yellow from the man's hat and then used the macro lens on his camera for several close-ups.

His examination of the Renoir made him eager to take a closer look at the other paintings. Neal put the flowers on a side table in the entry and headed for the living room where Maggie was working. The walls were covered with oil paintings. Most were nondescript landscapes and obvious copies, but there was a Degas in the living room which merited closer inspection. The painting was the well-known _Dancers at the Barre_. The original Neal had seen in D.C. at the Phillips Collection but this, like the Renoir in the office, was forgery grade.

He helped Maggie finish the living room decorations then they joined the others in the dining room where Steve and Jones were on ladders and festooning the crown molding with garlands. Maggie delegated Neal to arrange orchids on the long polished mahogany dining room table. He took a brief time out to photograph Jones hanging flowers.

Stepping close to the ladder he asked Jones in a low voice, "Detectors?"

"Present but not activated," Jones muttered. "The detectors in the living room are live. We're only going to activate the bugs in the dining room."

The dining room was off the main entry and when the front door opened, the sound of clicking heels was a loud rat-a-tat-tat on the marble floor. Shortly afterwards Lily Rinaldi herself walked in to inspect the party preparations. She was carrying a Yorkshire Terrier puppy with a pink satin bow holding up its forelock. When she set the puppy down, it scampered over to Steve who was dangling lengths of polymer to tie the garlands and tried to steal one away from him.

"No, no, Gigi. Come to mama." Lily Rinaldi was a vivacious brunette firecracker in her forties. Her medium-length hair was swept casually to one side. She was wearing skintight leggings, high heel boots, and a fire-engine red turtleneck which clung to every voluptuous curve.

Lily clapped her hands ecstatically when she saw Maggie's flowers and rushed over to hug her. "You're a magician! I love, love, love your creations! No one in Westbury has ever had any event as beautiful." Her southern twang made it sound like she was singing a country western ballad as she talked.

Lily proceeded around the table inspecting the decorations and eyeing the workers as she walked. Her gaze swept over Neal and quickly moved on. Surfer-dudes must not be her type. She briefly lingered on Steve but honed in on Jones and stayed there. When Jones came down from the ladder, she was there to greet him.

Slipping her arm into his, she led him toward the living room. "I'm hopeless with flowers, but I bet you know the name of every single one of them, sugar. How about giving me a tour?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal high fived Steve as they closed the van doors. "That's the last of the boxes, dude. Time to kick out."

They'd made their deadline with only a few minutes to spare. When they began packing the supplies into Maggie's van, Mozzie appeared as if by magic from behind a doorway to assist. He'd been absent throughout their work downstairs. The last time Neal had seen him was when he darted up the main staircase when they first walked into the house.

They were able to fit all the supplies into Maggie's van so Maggie and Steve would drive directly to the Emporium while the others would return to the Bureau in the FBI van. Mozzie had wanted to ride back with Maggie, but Jones balked at that. He insisted on being the one to question Mozzie about what he'd discovered, and there was no way Mozzie would go to the Bureau during business hours. After several long minutes of tense negotiation in the Rinaldi courtyard, the FBI van was picked as the closest approximation to a demilitarized zone they could come up with.

While Travis drove the van, Neal sat with Jones and Mozzie in the back cargo area. He felt like he was the mediator for peace negotiations where neither side was ready to lay down their arms. Jones was sitting behind Travis. Mozzie had picked the seat furthest away from Jones and was perched uneasily next to the back door, prepared to bolt at the first sign of enemy fire.

Jones made the initial overture for peace. "If I hadn't seen you walk in with us at the beginning, I wouldn't have even known you were present. You were the Phantom." Neal nodded at Jones with approval at the gambit. He must have gotten instructions from Travis on how best to approach Mozzie.

Mozzie flicked imperceptible dust off his garden apron with a small huff. "I knew surfer-dude over there could manage the downstairs easily on his own. I concentrated my efforts on the upstairs bedrooms."

"So, clue us in," Neal prompted. "Find anything interesting?"

"The scavenger hunt was not unproductive," he said smugly. "A sultan's palace of treasures ripe to be plundered."

Did he have any of the sultan's treasures with him? Maggie's reputation was on the line and he knew Mozzie didn't want to harm her. Still, the temptation would have been high. Neal would pursue that sensitive matter when they were alone.

"They're planning a trip," Mozzie said, polishing his glasses. "Lily—I feel we're on a first name basis since I've become acquainted with her unmentionables, of which she has a dazzling collection"—Mozzie paused to wipe his brow—"Va-va-va-voom, if you catch my drift."

Jones made rumbling noises to keep him on track.

Mozzie glared at Jones. "As I was trying to say, if the Wet Suit will stop interrupting me, Lily had a travel brochure on her desk for the Lynx Mountain Resort."

Jones didn't look impressed. "That's hardly anything to—"

Mozzie raised a hand. "Patience, my good man. Listen and learn. A simple travel brochure, yes, but what does it tell us? Listen to the travel brochure. I did and it directed me to Lily's closet. You can tell a lot from a closet. First of all, Lily has a very cluttered mind. Second, Lily is no shrinking violet. The number of plunging necklines she had was enough to—and if you include the silk and lace unmentionables to which I previously referred in every color of —"

Jones interrupted, determined to play the adult on the mission, "We get the idea. Continue."

"Very well, _Wet Suit_ ," Mozzie said, emphasizing his new term for Jones, no doubt short for wet blanket. "She'd grouped some of her clothes into a separate section: cocktail dresses and ski attire. I deduce from this she's planning a trip to a ski resort, and it must be soon since she's already planning her wardrobe."

"Very good, Sherlock," Neal said. "Did you check out Mandy's closet?"

"Of course, and what a bounty that was. How her mother lets her leave the house in those clothes …" Mozzie shook his head disapprovingly. "She has to be either a vixen or a strumpet. Further research will be needed to decide which."

"Be kind, Mozzie," Neal protested. "The girl is just turning eighteen, and with a mother like that, it doesn't sound like she's being given a very good example."

Mozzie acquiesced grudgingly. "I heard footsteps when I was searching her dresser. I grabbed her laptop and moved into her closet where I spent a delicious half-hour looking through her files, her browser history, and her email. Here, I downloaded a copy for you." Mozzie tossed a USB drive over to Jones. "Ah, now the Wet Suit smiles."

"Did you find any patterns in Mandy's closet?" Neal asked.

"Her clothes were in even worse disarray than her mother's. It makes me think I need to write a book, under an appropriate nom de plume of course—perhaps Amour pour l'Armoire—on the art of arranging clothes. Nevertheless I was able to detect the same pattern. She must be going to the resort too."

"Anything else?" Jones asked.

Mozzie was clearly tired of being questioned by Jones. He moved closer to Neal and passed him a scrap of crumpled paper. "I found this in a wastebasket in the bathroom," he muttered

Neal studied the fragment. It was a small two-inch square with the corners worn and ragged. Multiple bite marks were on it. "Gigi must have been playing with it," he remarked, telling Mozzie about Lily's terrier. The paper had a small logo in black. Only part of it was shown and the rest had been torn off. It looked like the head of a snake.

"Mean anything to you?" Jones asked, peering over at it.

Neal shook his head. "Could be the design for a tattoo. Maybe Lily has a kinky side?"

Once the van was within Manhattan, Mozzie availed himself of the first opportunity to jump out and melted into the lunchtime crowd.

As they approached the Federal Building, Neal looked over at Jones. "Think we'll pass muster with building security?"

Jones was buried in his laptop. "Sure. Why not?" Then he stopped typing and gave Neal the once over. "You, maybe not." He scratched his neck. "On further thought, we may need Travis to vouch for us both."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter glanced up from his paperwork when he heard the commotion in the bullpen. Walking out to the balcony to take a look, he broke out laughing. Neal, at least he assumed it was Neal underneath all the makeup, was making his way through the bullpen signing autographs. He really had Owen Wilson's voice nailed. Jones had his own share of admirers. Jones looked so much better with a mustache than Peter had when he'd tried to grow one—must be three years ago now. El still liked to tease him about it.

Peter took out his phone and snapped some photos of both Neal and Jones then descended the stairs to join in the fun.

Neal strode over to him. "What d'ya think? Not bad, huh?"

"You want me to call you the Shanghai Kid now?"

Neal's smile grew even broader. "Has a nice ring to it."

"Is that how you've been signing your autographs? You haven't been forging Owen Wilson's signature, have you?" Peter walked over to Collins's desk and picked up the piece of paper Neal had signed and chuckled.

Neal shrugged. "I figured _Owen Wilson's Twin_ would keep me from being arrested." He gave one final bow to the bullpen and muttered, "The nose is itching like crazy. I gotta get it off. Richard provided remover and I'm heading for the men's room."

Jones walked over to join them. "I feel like I've got ants gnawing away at my face," he complained, scratching his neck. "Last time I go through this."

Peter was disinclined to show any sympathy to their discomfort. "So, next time I hear talk of disguises, I'm going to remind you of this conversation. When you stop peeling and dripping from the gunk you have on, meet me upstairs in the conference room."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After removing the makeup and making a quick stop in the locker room for a change in clothes, Neal and Jones joined Travis, Diana, and Peter in the conference room.

Peter's reaction to the possibility that the Rinaldis might be going to the same resort where El had planned her winter getaway was predictable, even though it was a long shot that they'd be there at the same time. He asked Diana to contact the resort to confirm any reservations the Rinaldis might have made and report back.

As for the fragment of paper Mozzie had retrieved, no one recognized it. The drawing was a stylized rendered of what was most likely either the head of a dragon or snake. Peter directed Travis to spearhead the effort to find a match.

The moment for Neal's big reveal had arrived. He felt like Poirot explaining how he'd solved the murder. "The Rinaldis have filled their walls with paintings. Most of them are mediocre copies, but two of them merited closer inspection—a Degas and a Renoir. They appear to have been painted by the same artist. The brush technique has the hallmark of the Dutchman written all over it, and it's a safe bet that hansa yellow was used. I took photos and got paint samples. I'll know for sure once I test them."

Peter was satisfyingly impressed. "Do you think the paintings were sold as forgeries?"

"Highly unlikely. Both paintings are in public collections. The briefest search would find them. No, my guess is that Rinaldi commissioned them from the Dutchman. Then maybe Rinaldi got the idea or perhaps the Dutchman encouraged him to try selling a forgery of a lost masterpiece."

"Or the Dutchman may have painted the Corot for Rinaldi, and Rinaldi later decided to pass it off as the original," Jones added. "We may be able to learn his identity if we can get our hands on Rinaldi's files, but so far it doesn't appear we'll be able to make a case against the Dutchman, at least not for the Corot. He wasn't the one who tried to pass off the painting as an original."

"Yes, but once we have his identity, we'll be able to track him," said Peter. "Eventually he'll slip up, and he'll be ours."

Diana came back into the room and joined them at the table. "The resort has reservations for the three of them—Max Rinaldi, his wife, and daughter—for the next weekend. Rinaldi's booked four nights in February, the third through the sixth. There are special events planned for that weekend. They're calling it . . ." She paused to look down at her notes.

"Winter Festival," Peter supplied with a groan. Regarding the others gloomily, he added, "El's scheduled to go there that same weekend."

Although Peter might not feel that way, knowing the Rinaldis would be at the resort was a golden opportunity. A little encouragement was in order. "The Rinaldis' travel plans is a gift, Peter. It provides us with the means to access his computer records. They're the most likely source of incriminating evidence and we know that Rinaldi travels with his computer."

"He should have it with him at the resort," Diana confirmed. "The hotel told me he's arranged for a small conference room and is meeting several associates there about a real estate development project. The hotel gave me the names of the people he's meeting. We're researching them now." Diana checked her notepad. "The Rinaldis are traveling with two bodyguards. Names of Rocko Calloway and Lamar Wilcox. These are the same bodyguards he used in Miami. We've already prepared extensive files on them. Both are ex-football players. No arrests. Calloway was detained briefly for roughing up a pedestrian, but the charges were dropped. The Rinaldis have booked a three-bedroom suite, and the guards will be staying in the suite with them."

"With the security measures he has in place at home, we're not likely to have a chance to get to his records there," Neal said, "but the odds are much better in a public location, such as the resort. With all the hotel staff and activities around, it will be easier to stage a distraction and sneak in when he's not looking—"

"—and copy his files," Diana added, finishing his thought.

"But do we have the legal authority?" Jones asked dubiously, "And, even assuming we do, the capability of copying someone's hard drive quickly without them being aware of it? Travis?"

All eyes turned to Travis who shrugged dismissively. "Not a problem. We could reprogram the BIOS. If the data's encrypted, which, given Rinaldi's love of security, it probably is, we could still access it through a cold-boot attack. The fastest, though, may be to remove the hard drive and make a ghost image on another drive. However, the legality of any evidence gathered in this way would be highly suspect, I imagine. I'm not a legal expert, though. You're the lawyer, Jones. What do you think?"

"A hotel room is considered like one's home as far as legal protection. Rinaldi is a U.S. citizen . . ." Jones shook his head. "Unless we can obtain a warrant, we'd be stepping outside the boundaries of the law. It won't fly."

"We've been stymied at gaining access to Rinaldi's computer records," Peter pointed out. "His lawyers have successfully fought all attempts to view them. The Patriot Act gives us considerable leeway we didn't have before and we also may be able to invoke probable cause for a warrant. But Jones is right. If we copy the files, we may not be able to use the evidence in court."

"On the other hand," Diana interjected, "we may acquire intel which would lead us to evidence we could legally use to tie him to real estate fraud."

Peter was silent and no one else spoke up, letting him weigh his options. After a few moments, he said, "I'd stated we need to go out of the box on this, and I know where you stand. I'm not convinced that going to the resort is the answer, but here's what I'm willing to do. Come up with a plan on how you'd run it and get back to me at three o'clock. Jones, you take the lead on this. I'll then decide if we should present it to Hughes."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: Please join me next week to find out what strategy the team devises and why Peter is so reluctant to approve it. You can find pins of the paintings, Neal and Jones's disguises, and the Rinaldi mansion on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site._

 _Mozzie misquoted Saint John of the Cross. The original is "If a man wishes to be sure of the road he's traveling on, then he must close his eyes and travel in the dark."_

 _Thanks for reading and your comments and to Penna Nomen for her beta magic!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	10. Operation Avalanche

**Chapter 10: Operation Avalanche**

 **White Collar Division. January 28, 2005. Friday afternoon.**

"You want to take down Rinaldi at the Lynx Mountain Resort? You devise a plan that's legal."

After Peter issued the challenge, Jones, Diana, Neal, and Travis moved into the conference room to begin work. Peter had a full afternoon of meetings scheduled or he would have been brainstorming with them. As it was, he kept track of their progress between meetings by the occasional glance through the glass walls of the conference room. He'd put Jones in charge. When Tricia had assumed her job as profiler in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Peter had made Jones his second-in-command, and this was his first opportunity since then to demonstrate his leadership skills. He had a brilliant group to work with and that might be his greatest hurdle. Creativity they had in abundance, but practicality? Peter was counting on Jones to keep everyone firmly grounded in the land of the possible.

Whenever Peter sneaked a look, Neal and Diana always appeared to be in the midst of a heated discussion, waving their hands around as if they were speaking Italian. Hard to tell if they were challenging each other to a duel or simply excited. Jones seemed to be having a hard time getting a word in, but he was trying. Travis appeared to ignore them, his eyes fixed on his laptop display as he typed. Peter chuckled. He was looking forward to what came out of that session.

Promptly at the prearranged time of three o'clock he knocked on the door. "You ready for me?" He received his answer from the satisfied looks on their faces.

Motioning him to a seat, Jones said, "The breakthrough came when Travis found the serpent symbol from that scrap of paper the little guy discovered in the Rinaldi mansion on an Interpol database."

Travis, his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers in front of him. "The symbol is part of the emblem for a criminal organization known as Ydrus." He displayed the full emblem on the wall monitor. It resembled a winged serpent or dragon. "Very little is known about it. Reports about it first surfaced two years ago. Interpol believes it may be linked to crimes throughout the world, but much of their information is rumor only. The most solid evidence connects them to jewel and art robberies in Europe. They first came to Interpol's attention for arms smuggling. Ydrus is also speculated to be involved in terrorist activities, particularly in Eastern Europe."

"I filed a request for additional information, and was immediately bumped up the ladder," Jones said. "This is the first physical evidence of them operating in North America, although they've been suspected of having a presence here. Interpol has been relying on informants who were supplying third-hand accounts, and they've been unable to verify the accuracy of the reports."

"Any thoughts as to why Rinaldi would be involved with an organization like Ydrus?" Peter asked.

"My bet's on money laundering," Neal said. "Real estate development's a great tool and Rinaldi's one the largest players in the space."

"By linking Rinaldi to Ydrus we can apply for a warrant under the Patriot Act," Jones said.

"This could be the solution to finally getting our hands on Rinaldi's records," Travis added. "Rinaldi's computer was seized during the Miami mortgage fraud investment case, but the hard drive was blank. He'd used a kill switch, probably operated remotely, to wipe it before turning it over."

"Now we can take advantage of Section 213—the delayed search warrant notification—and inform Rinaldi after obtaining the evidence," Jones said. "We'll need to have the legal department weigh in, but I believe our request will be granted."

Peter nodded in approval, confident that if it sounded acceptable to Jones, the legal department wouldn't pose any major hurdles. Turning to Neal, he asked, "Have you heard of Ydrus?"

Neal shook his head. "It's a new one to me. I scanned the Interpol data. It's believed to have originated in Europe, but they're doing an excellent job of keeping in the shadows."

"You'll contact your own shadow dweller about them?"

Breaking out in a smile, Neal said, "I'll give him a call after the meeting."

Diana passed Peter a sheet of paper. "With the legal justification resolved, we proceeded to work on the plan. This summarizes the strategy for Operation Avalanche."

Peter frowned as he scanned the paper. "Are you trying to jinx it by calling it avalanche?"

"That's what I said," Neal agreed. "We should have named it 'Milk Run.' "

"Nah," rebuffed Jones, "the word _avalanche_ is much more appropriate for how we'll run the op." Jones, the former navy officer, got up and stood by the whiteboard to sketch the outline of what they'd developed. "Our best opportunity to access Rinaldi's computer will most likely be in their hotel suite. If we consider the computer to be the supply ship, then its convoy is represented by the people residing in the suite. We have Rinaldi, his wife, daughter and two bodyguards, all of whom will have to be drawn out in order for Operation Avalanche to succeed. Rinaldi is the flagship, with the bodyguards represented by destroyers. Lily and Mandy are cruisers."

Diana groaned. "Is the navy terminology absolutely necessary?"

"I'm with Diana," Peter said firmly. "Stick to FBI lingo, Commander Jones."

"And I was so looking forward to being a PT boat," Neal said in an undertone to Travis.

"My plans to be a nuclear attack submarine just got torpedoed," Travis replied glumly.

Peter glared at Jones. "You see what you started?"

Jones didn't intimidate easily. "Hear me out. You're going to find it much easier to digest the plan if you think in terms of battle maneuvers."

"Jones could be right," Neal seconded. "The best strategist I know uses _Monopoly_ to visualize the sequence of events."

Travis gave a bark of laughter which he tried to fake—unsuccessfully—as a coughing fit. Even Peter had to smile at the thought of Jones imitating Mozzie in anything. Raising his hand as a signal of the white flag, Peter said, "I placed you in charge. Carry on, Commander."

Jones proceeded to walk Peter through the op, making ample use of the whiteboard to draw X's for the players—red for the enemy and blue for White Collar— with arrows for their movements. Peter felt his own face dropping lower and lower in inverse proportion to the others looking more hopeful.

At the conclusion of the presentation he scanned the four of them. "So what you're telling me in a nutshell is that you want us to gain access to Rinaldi's computer through the Rinaldi women?"

"Not at all," Jones said. "We've devised a carefully constructed plan to lure Rinaldi away from his computer long enough to enable us to copy his hard drive. The women are simply auxiliary cruisers that will need to be neutralized. They're not the only targets."

Peter raised a brow. Count on Diana to cut to the chase. "Admit it Jones, Peter's right." she said without the slightest bit of remorse. "We assume our best chance of being able to gain access to his computer will be in his hotel suite, and it makes sense to take advantage of the assets we have on hand. We figure between you and Neal, one of you should strike a responsive chord with Lily."

"We already know that she's a bit of a cougar," Neal said. "She's bound to go for one of us." He paused and looked suspiciously at Peter. "You do know how to flirt, don't you?"

Peter didn't answer, but sensed major roadblocks ahead. Fortunately El wasn't around to respond to that loaded question. "How will she get to know us?"

"The hotel reported that Lily has signed up for ski lessons," Diana said. "You're a skier. You could be her instructor. She's signed up for beginner's level, so you should have no problem."

"You really expect me to come on to Lily Rinaldi?"

"Cowboy up, Peter," Neal said sternly. "Weren't you only a few weeks ago complaining that you rarely have the thrill of the glamorous type of undercover work? You had a taste of high living in December. Think of this as another opportunity to gain valuable field experience."

"This is much more your area, Neal," Peter grumbled. "What will you be doing all this time?"

"I'll be in the bar."

This was clearly getting out of hand. "Now wait a minute—"

"He's serious," Jones said in unexpected confirmation. "There's a piano bar at the resort. We plan to put Caffrey's singing talents to work. If Lily doesn't respond to you on the ski slope, she may be swayed by Neal crooning at her. Mandy will also likely be susceptible to Neal's charm. The two of you will be responsible for neutralizing the women."

Peter tried a counterattack from a different direction. "Jones, this should be you taking on Lily. We already know she was interested in you. Without the mustache, she may not recognize you."

"We considered that," Diana replied, "but Jones's skills at undercover work when it comes to women—how should I put this kindly—suck. I staged an impromptu test this afternoon and he flunked."

"You didn't witness what happened after Lily came on to him," Neal added, shaking his head regretfully. "We only have a week to prepare. To whip Jones into shape we'd need at least a month."

Jones shrugged, not looking at all uncomfortable at their assessment. "As designated commander of this op, it's my responsibility to allocate available resources in the most appropriate manner. Besides, I'll need to be free to coordinate operations and assist Travis with monitoring Max Rinaldi's meetings."

While he supposed he should be flattered they thought he'd be better than Jones, Peter wasn't ready to give up so easily. "Glad you brought up Max. Diana, can't you work your magic on Max Rinaldi and leave me out of it?"

"I'm already assigned for that, boss." Diana stood up and went to the whiteboard and pointed out an X. "This is me. I'm going to be at the resort, posing as a writer. We don't know Rinaldi's schedule yet, but I'm going to make myself available and see what develops. Rinaldi's profile indicates he may be open to temptation."

Travis added, "In addition to monitoring, Jones and I'll be there offering full support, ready to beam you up at any sign of trouble."

Peter tossed out another red flag. "And how are we going to persuade the resort to agree to all this?"

Neal looked dismissive. "These are insignificant details. I'll ask Miranda Garza—she's the one who got me gigs over the summer as Neal Legend— to approach the resort for me."

Diana added, "They'll jump at the chance to have that famous rock star, Neal Legend, perform at their piano bar. As for you, I'm sure I can convince them to help out the FBI on a case of international security."

Peter sighed as he sat back in his chair. He'd tossed down the gauntlet, and they'd succeeded. Now how was he going to explain to El that they were going to crash her weekend? By far the best solution would be for her to postpone her plans. Unfortunate, but she'd understand it was the best solution for all involved.

 **Burke Residence. January 28, 2005. Friday evening.**

El arrived home later than she'd hoped. It had been a frustrating day. She'd spent the entire time trying to please a client with her ideas for a wedding reception, and no matter what she suggested, the client hated it. She'd repeatedly reminded herself to be patient and keep smiling, but by six o'clock the smile was a sad remnant of the bubbly image she wanted to project. When she'd embarked on her event-planning business, she'd warned herself about unpleasant clients and the need to be prepared for the moments she'd kick herself for ever having chosen this career path. But clearly she'd been overly confident of her abilities to rise above the grief.

She was in a black mood and she knew it. She might as well go ahead and put a sign around her neck for Peter to approach with caution. Satchmo better not pull any tricks. She was going to put her feet up, relax, and try to chill. Hopefully Peter would be late and give her time to become human again before he returned home. Just once, couldn't he be late when she wanted him to?

El opened the door and was stunned by what she found. Peter had put on an album of soft jazz, one of her favorites. There were lit tapers on the table. Low flames were dancing in the fireplace. Her heart leaped to her throat. Had she forgotten their anniversary? No, that'd been in November. What had happened in January? Was this the anniversary of their first date or the first time they'd made love? El panicked. She was the one who always remembered these events, not Peter.

"Hi, hon. Hard day? You look a little frazzled. Let me take your coat." Peter hung up her coat while she collapsed on the couch, wracking her memory for what had happened on January 28. Peter was wearing her favorite sweater, a soft black cashmere pullover. God, he looked sexy in that. She loved snuggling up to him in that sweater.

Peter sat down next to her and handed her a glass of wine. "Neck massage?"

"How did you guess I had a miserable day? This is rapidly making up for it." El sighed in pleasure as Peter massaged her neck.

"I must be getting clairvoyant. Something told me you weren't going to want to cook. I stopped off for Chinese takeout on the way home. Picked up your favorites: crab puffs, lemon chicken—"

"Peter, I'm so sorry that I didn't get you anything, but my mind is a blank. What occasion are we celebrating?"

He kissed her cheek. "No occasion. Can't a man take a moment to show his wife how much she means to him?"

El sat upright and shook off his hands. "Okay, Peter Burke, now I know something is up. What's going on?"

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

El was still laughing as they finished the last of the lemon chicken. "You're going to be James Bond, seducing the villain's wife, and I get to spy on you? Life doesn't get better than this."

"No, I'm not. There will be no seduction, no James Bond. I may need to distract her long enough to gain access to Rinaldi's computer. That's it. I'll keep her occupied on the ski slopes and let Neal or Travis slip in. No hand-holding. No flirting. No innuendos. God, no innuendos."

El wasn't letting up. "What? Let all this sex appeal go to waste? You better not let yourself be aced out by Neal. You're my hunk, you're my man. Do us proud, Peter."

He groaned and went to the refrigerator for another beer. "We still have to get the legal department to sign off on this. Hughes may not approve."

"That sounds like wishful thinking to me," El said, putting down her wine glass. "You've been wanting to indict Rinaldi for years. Now's your chance."

"But I thought you'd be upset at us crashing your vacation." As Peter removed her plate, he tried his final pitch. "You'll have to promise me to stay far away."

She quickly blasted that trial balloon to smithereens. "Can't I fight over you?"

"Absolutely not." He'd hoped that El would pick up on the need for her to reschedule her own vacation. That she didn't want to was understandable, but for him to remain in character, he'd have to focus. Man, was he going to have to focus. And now El was insisting on tutoring him in the art of seduction. The worst part of it was that he only had himself to blame. He was the one who'd told the team to think out of the box. In his zeal to take down Rinaldi and the Dutchman, he'd committed the cardinal sin. He'd allowed the team to pull a Caffrey on him. Now he was going to have to deal with the consequences.

"So what does she look like? Do you have a photo?"

"Oh, she's very ordinary. Some might call her plain."

"Peter, hand over the picture." There was no denying El when she adopted that tone. Peter went to his laptop and pulled up the photo.

Her eyes widened as she scrutinized it. "You didn't tell me she used to work at Hooters. Let me see her husband."

Once she'd seen the photos, Peter's doom was sealed. He might as well call it for what it was: blackmail. Now it was going to cost him several ice skating lessons—not that he minded that at all. He'd wanted to teach her for years but never seemed to have the time. But the rest of the stuff—shopping for "sexy ski outfits," lessons in flirtation—it was going to be a long week.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter returned from walking Satchmo, El was upstairs taking a bath. Taking his coat off, Peter glanced at his watch. Not too late. Neal stayed up till all hours. He sat down on the couch and reached for the phone. As he started to punch the speed dial, he hesitated. It was Friday night. Neal was probably on a date. He shouldn't intrude. Aw, hell, everyone called him at all hours of the day and night. At the worst Neal would give him the brush-off. When Neal answered the phone, he heard music in the background. Sounded like a string quartet. "Good time to talk? I'm not interrupting anything?"

The sound became quieter. Neal must have lowered the volume. "Please interrupt. I've studied enough for one night. How'd it go?"

Relieved he'd found Neal alone, Peter rehashed his discussion with El. "I was hoping she'd offer to reschedule, realize that she'd be a distraction."

"You just don't want her to be a witness."

"Well, yeah, that's obvious. Would you like Fiona to watch you flirt with another woman?"

"I see your point. But, Peter, it's not like she's going to be right there with you. Have you looked at the layout? The resort is immense. You may not even see each other."

"Not with my luck. Simply knowing El may watch me is really going to throw me off my game. You're not laughing, are you?"

"Nah, frog in my throat." Neal cleared his throat again. "I called Miranda Garza. She's still technically the agent for Urban Legend since Mozzie retired from the role. She's going to call the resort tomorrow. Oh, and I talked with Mozzie. He hadn't heard of Ydrus and was much chagrined over the fact."

Peter chuckled. "I imagine. He's been too distracted by honey and the birds and the bees. Is he going to look into them?"

"You bet. He considers it a point of honor to redeem himself for his failure to recognize the symbol."

"El wants to join us for the op planning on Monday." Surely Neal would sympathize with him on that and realize how impractical it was.

"Great idea. I was planning to call her for tips, but now I can ask her at work."

With a mounting sense of foreboding, Peter asked, "What kind of tips?"

"Diana and I've been strategizing the nature of training required for a delicate op like Avalanche. She believes you may need a little assistance in some areas. Perhaps a small amount of coaching."

Peter's groan was loud enough that El called down from upstairs. "Everything okay, Peter?"

"Tell her everything's just fi-ne" was Neal's oh-so-helpful contribution as Peter called out he'd be up shortly.

"Don't you need training too?" he grumbled.

"Already taken care of. Fiona's coming over for dinner tomorrow."

 **Neal's Loft. January 29, 2005. Saturday evening.**

"I'm floating on a cloud after your soufflé." Fiona put down her fork with a gratifying sigh of pleasure. "And your beef roulades . . . did you hear my purrs of contentment? I'm amazed at how you could put everything together in such a tiny kitchen."

Neal poured Fiona another glass of wine. "The secret is not to make large quantities. You'll never see me hosting a dinner party for eight here." The dinner had gone remarkably well. He'd been concerned about the orange soufflé, but even that went off without a hitch. The gods were smiling on him tonight.

Fiona took her glass and walked over to the patio doors. Neal got up and joined her.

"Such an amazing view," she said. "I wish we could sit on the terrace, but as windy as it is, we'd freeze."

"We can do the next best thing." Putting down his glass, Neal moved two chairs in front of the patio doors. Going to the stereo system, he put on a CD of Frank Sinatra music and then sank down in a chair next to her. Together they gazed out at the city lights while sipping their wine.

"Great music choice," Fiona said. "I haven't listened to Frank Sinatra in a long time, and it's refreshing. You should croon some Frank Sinatra tunes when you sing at the resort."

"June helped me rehearse several numbers this morning. She's sorry she missed meeting you tonight, by the way. She'd already arranged to go to the opera with a friend."

"I'm sorry too. I hope I can hear her sing someday."

"Would you like to come over tomorrow? We're going to have another rehearsal. I'd love to have your critical ear present, and the rest of you as well."

Fiona laughed. "I'd like that very much. I'll play the part of the woman you're trying to impress. I'll let you know which song sets me on fire."

"Yes, I'd like to know that."

Fiona didn't reply but began swaying to the music. "What's this song? It makes me want to dance."

"The Way You Look Tonight." Neal put down his glass. "Care to dance?"

Fiona gave him a warm smile. "Thought you'd never ask."

As they danced, Neal started singing softly to her along with old Blue Eyes. She relaxed in his arms. Her hair smelled of lavender and rosemary. Her lips were soft and inviting . . .

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Neal, we need to—"

"Mozzie!"

"Why's it so dark in here?"

"Get out!"

"You don't have to be rude. Who's that giggling?"

"Get out now!" The light streaming in from the hallway was extinguished as Mozzie slammed the door behind him.

Fiona's giggles turned to laughter. "Who's Mozzie?"

Neal groaned. "An unwelcome visitor at the moment."

She nuzzled his neck. "Don't worry about it. After years in university housing, nothing fazes me. Let's get dressed. He's probably moping outside the door."

Five minutes later, Neal opened the door, still feeling grumpy. "What happened to your iambic pentameter knock?"

Mozzie was standing impatiently by the door. "I had matters of vital interest to discuss and couldn't wait. Haven't you heard of putting a sock on your doorknob?" As he walked in, his eyes swept over Neal. "You really should take a comb to your hair." Mozzie then proceeded to peer at Fiona as if she were a previously unrecorded species of bird. Fiona was sitting nonchalantly, if somewhat breathlessly, on the couch. "Hello, who do we have here? What fair maiden is gracing Neal's domicile?" He went over and kissed her hand while murmuring, "You missed a couple of buttons."

Fiona laughed and patted the cushion next to her for him to sit down. "A pleasure, sir. I'm Fiona. Neal, do we have any wine left? Your name's Mozzie, right?"

"Yes, short for Dante, Dante Haversham."

Neal brought glasses over for Fiona and Mozzie the Moocher. "Mozzie is an old friend,"—he paused and glared pointedly at him—"who sometimes get carried away and forgets what time it is." He sat back in a chair, swirling his wine while observing him chatter with Fiona who had no qualms about him bursting in on them. She'd pulled her feet up and was sitting with her legs tucked under Neal's throw.

"So, what was so earth-shatteringly important that you needed to break in to my apartment at midnight?" Neal said calmly, showing remarkable restraint.

"Oh that." Mozzie gave a small, high-pitched laugh. "It was about our video."

"Yellowface, the Masked Avenger?" Fiona's face lit up with sudden interest. "Neal's told me about that. It's so exciting."

"Don't egg him on," Neal cautioned. "You'll regret it."

Fiona wasn't inclined to listen to his sage words of advice. Mozzie also ignored Neal and focused all his attention on her. "I'm writing the screenplay and imbuing the character of Yellowface with my own superhero characteristics. The script's going well, but I've hit one important snag. As you may know we're using this to promote the plight of the yellow-faced bee and for it to appeal to the greatest number of viewers, I decided we need two female roles. We already have plans for the queen, of course, but I'm considering including another, perhaps a flower. Someone for girls to relate to and boys adore. You have a lovely voice. Would you like to audition for the part?"

Fiona adopted a serious expression. "I'm honored you'd consider me, but wouldn't my British accent seem a little out of place for a Hawaiian flower? Perhaps Angela would be better suited."

"She's already slated to be queen. She lends an excellent imperious tone to her lines."

"How about Keiko? Her soft voice would be ideal for a flower, perhaps an orchid? And you'd win extra points with Aidan for including her."

From talk of the script they moved into an animated discussion of the soundtrack. Richard and Fiona had been working together to arrange music for all the band members, no minor accomplishment to blend the sound of a tin whistle with guitar, violin, dulcimer, drums, and synthesizer. Mozzie was in his element as a music critic.

In response to Fiona's encouragement, Mozzie grew ever more expansive. When she complimented him on his script, he acknowledged her praise, saying, "I'm at my most creative late at night. Like the stars I shine most brilliantly when the sun is not present to obscure my radiance."

Ah yes, Mozzie, kinsman to the stars. Neal had been a fool not to have realized that earlier. He had a brief vision of Mozzie as an impish Puck riding on top of a yellow-faced bee over a Hawaiian forest, the scene suffused with moonlight. He'd never painted Mozzie as he would have been horrified at having his likeness displayed. Perhaps it was time. He could obscure his face.

"Time speeds too quickly in such delightful company." Rousing him from his thoughts, Mozzie was bidding farewell. With a final _Au Revoir_ he vanished into the shadows from whence he came.

"What an extraordinary man," Fiona said.

"Yes, isn't he? A man of many faces." Neal turned to her. "Could you picture him as Puck?"

"Is that what you were thinking about? I could tell you were focused on something other than the video."

"In a way they might be related."

"Hmm. Mozzie, 'that shrewd and knavish sprite,' I don't know him well enough to assess, but Shakespeare's Puck inspired night-terrors and described himself as a 'merry wanderer of the night.' You may be on to something." Fiona beckoned him over to sit next to her on the couch. "Now, where were we?"

 **The Aloha Emporium. January 30, 2005. Sunday morning.**

"That's the last of them." Steve set the final orchid down on Maggie's work table in front of Neal. Neal had accompanied Maggie and Steve to the Rinaldi mansion. They'd been given a one-hour window to retrieve the orchids while the Rinaldis were at brunch. Neal had put on his Owen Wilson makeup one final time. By now, he'd done it often enough that he didn't need Richard's help.

Mozzie was waiting for their return at the Emporium and joined Neal in the delicate art of removing the bugs from the orchids. Steve returned downstairs to help with the brunch crowd. As each bug was removed, Neal cataloged it and placed it in the container Travis had provided.

"Is all that inventorying really necessary?" Mozzie whined. "Travis surely won't notice one or two missing. These bugs are superior quality to what I can acquire. I know he'd want me to keep one as a token of appreciation."

Mozzie had already collected a fee for his help, paid in cash of course, and Neal had lingering resentment for his knavish friend after last night's misadventure. "In that case, ask him yourself the next time you see him."

Mozzie glared at him. "You know, sometimes you're starting to sound like a suit, yourself."

That was about as stinging a rebuke as Mozzie had ever used on him and Neal hurried to patch things up.

"Yeah, well, understandable. I'm sorry too." Mozzie paused, his tweezers in mid-air. "It wasn't my intent to intrude upon your nocturnal interlude."

"It's okay. Fiona was amused by it. She's coming over this afternoon to help me rehearse my piano bar numbers." Neal checked off the final bug and placed the container in his backpack.

Mozzie got off his perch. "Have a few minutes to spare? While you were at the Rinaldis this morning, I heard back from a contact about that mysterious serpent dragon you're interested in. We can discuss it in my new bunker. I think you'll find both revealing."

 _Mozzie has a bunker?_

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: The Dreamer board on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site includes the Frank Sinatra song mentioned and one of Neal's ideas for Mozzie as Puck._

 _As Neal prepares to leave for the Lynx Mountain Ski Resort, he's been having remarkably smooth sailing for quite a while. This is your warning for bumps in the road coming up next week in Chapter 11: The Card. Mozzie will also reveal the mysteries of the bunker and give him an earful of advice about the PhD question._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	11. The Card

**Chapter 11: The Card**

 **The Aloha Emporium. January 30, 2005. Sunday.**

Neal was flabbergasted when Mozzie offered to show him his bunker. He'd known Mozzie was using a space in Billy's basement at the Aloha Emporium to serve as an office, but the word _bunker_ implied he'd moved far beyond that. What invasion was he preparing for?

He followed Mozzie downstairs. The store was bustling with midday shoppers and the brunch crowd. Billy's waffles with lilikoi butter, a curd made with passion fruit and honey, were justly famous. Sniffing the air, Neal was for a brief moment tempted to hold Mozzie off, but the lure of the bunker was too powerful to be resisted.

Mozzie led the way to a keypad-controlled door at the back of the store. Behind the door was a narrow staircase which was used to access the basement. When Mozzie turned on the lights, Neal saw himself in a cavernous empty room. The space was meticulously clean with a smooth concrete floor. One section had been covered with a sparring mat. So he was right. Neal had long suspected Billy had a martial arts studio in the basement—Mozzie had told Neal that Billy was a wushu master— but Billy had never wanted to talk about it. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors had been installed along one wall. Large wooden cabinets lined the other walls. Neal assumed they contained equipment and weapons.

Mozzie approached one of the cabinets on the far wall which had been equipped with an electronic lock. "Fingerprint enabled?" Neal asked.

He nodded. "Along with a PIN code. I used the highest rating in my Columbia code system, _Smew_ , along with the code for Mudd Hall. In the event of power failure, the lock is intricate enough to foil all miscreants. Bring all your lock picks if you ever need to open it."

Neal made a reverential bow. "Yes, sensei master."

Mozzie made a gesture for Neal to open the lock. When Neal scanned his fingerprint and keyed in the code, the door opened silently with a light coming on automatically in the space behind. The cabinet acted as a threshold to a room roughly twelve by eighteen feet. Every available inch on the walls was taken up by shelving units, a built-in desk, and cabinets. Books, equipment, and electronics were everywhere. Three computers were grouped in a row so Mozzie could roll in his office chair from one to the other. An immense worktable was in the center, piled high with more equipment, and a futon was along one wall. Neal smiled when he saw the poster of a UFO with the caption "I want to believe" tacked on the wall. There was even a small kitchenette with sink, microwave, fridge, and oversized wine rack. A door in the back opened into a small bathroom.

"The cabinet entrance is reinforced steel under the wooden veneer," Mozzie said proudly. "My bathroom pod arrived last week."

"Is this for when the Nazi clones land?"

"One should always be ready," he replied darkly. "My bunker has its own backup power and ventilation systems. I plan to install an air purifier and water recycling system. Now, pay attention." He walked over to the bookcase next to the bathroom door and removed a book, revealing a lock behind it. When he twirled the lock, a soft snap was heard. Stepping back, he pulled on the bookcase which swung on silent hinges to reveal a cavity beyond, about four feet high and wide enough for a man to slide through.

Neal peered into the passageway. "This looks like part of the Columbia tunnel system."

Mozzie's eyes glittered as he nodded confirmation. "You are the only one besides me and the Mole who knows of its existence. Billy has seen the room but not this."

"The Mole?"

"He helped with the necessary excavation and installation. The Mole and I go back a long ways."

Neal had no idea who the Mole was, but much of Mozzie's life before they met was still a blank.

"You remember that crevice you discovered at the supposed tunnel terminus on 114th Street back in November? I investigated it further over the holidays and discovered an undocumented tunnel extension that runs for one block south. I can now use the tunnel system from here all the way up to the northern boundary of the campus at 120th Street." Mozzie's eyes shone with an eerie light. "This is the refuge of my dreams—my ultimate bolthole."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"But you're still going to maintain your other safe houses, right?" Mozzie had opened a bottle of Pele's Nectar honey wine to toast Neal's indoctrination into the mysteries of the bunker. Neal was sitting on the futon. Mozzie sat opposite him in a Burgundy leather office chair which looked like it belonged on the _Enterprise_. Was Mozzie channeling Jean-Luc Picard?

"Of course, but for now my focus will be here. I'm convinced the underground tunnel system still has many secrets to reveal."

"Following your inner moonlight?"

He nodded. "Allen Ginsberg had it right."

Neal took a sip of wine. "What did you learn about Ydrus?"

"A contact in Warsaw called me this morning. Originally Ydrus focused on arms smuggling which must be why I hadn't heard of it. Weapons of mass insanity have no interest to me. They're the manifestation of inferior minds. In the past few years, though, Ydrus, along with so many others, has expanded its focus to art and antiquities. They operate primarily in Europe. Otto believes they're headquartered somewhere in Eastern Europe. He's heard whispers of two regional heads—one somewhere in the States and one in China—and believes there may be more."

"Did Otto know anything about their terrorist activities?"

"Not enough to form a pattern. They've been linked to assassinations, both of government officials and business leaders. Apparently they have a branch which operates a lucrative murder-for-hire operation." Mozzie got up to refill their glasses. When he settled back in his chair, he clasped his hands in front of him and studied Neal for a moment. "Have you decided whether to accept Sherkov's offer and apply for the PhD program?"

"Not yet. I still have lots of questions. For one, I don't know how realistic it is to attempt with a full-time job. I plan to talk with Michael. He's in his second year of the program, but he only works part time at Manhattan Geeks."

"You should go for it," Mozzie said decisively. "Think of the opportunities."

Neal cocked a brow. "And what opportunities are you referring to?"

"It all boils down to access." Mozzie rocked slowly in his chair. Was the chair giving him a slight British accent like Picard? He definitely made much more of a commanding presence. "The key is to pick the right specialty, for instance, Renaissance and Baroque Art. You could then travel throughout Europe in the name of research. Columbia has one of the most prestigious art history departments in the world. The museums of the world would now be your playground. Unexhibited collections of the world's greatest museums, the Vatican Secret Archives, the private repository at the Louvre"—He snapped his fingers—"All yours for the asking … and taking. The Vatican Library alone could provide—"

Neal interrupted hastily before he got any further carried away. "That life is behind me. If I go for a PhD, it's not going to be to plunder the world's art museums."

Mozzie sighed. "Not even a little?" At Neal's stern headshake, he continued, "Even with your newfound scruples, you have to admit that the knowledge you could acquire and the manuscripts which you could consult could lead to untold riches." He leaned forward and tapped Neal on his knee. "Access and opportunity. Think about it … ah, you can't fool me. I see that gleam in your eyes."

Neal checked the half-smile in the making. "It's easy enough for you to say. You're not the one taking courses and writing papers."

He dismissed his objections with a wave of his hand. "Your coursework won't be that much more than what you've already agreed to do for your master's. And as for the research part, PhD candidates spend years working on their dissertation. You could probably drag it out as long as you liked. I checked Columbia's website. It's quite common to take seven years to complete the requirements. Surely that would give you enough time, and you always have the option of pulling out if you change your mind. You could quit after getting your master's. And if that doesn't persuade you, I know you've learned to appreciate the value of multiple rabbit holes. Pursuing a PhD would open new doors to explore when the wind changes."

Mozzie went on for several more minutes, before Neal called a time out. This was one decision he didn't want to be rushed into making while sitting in a bunker. Besides, Fiona would be arriving before long and he didn't fancy spending the afternoon looking like surfer-dude.

Mozzie returned upstairs with him. He'd prepared a list of ideas for the Honey Wine for Lovers label that he wanted to discuss. Neal listened politely, but he'd already gotten his inspiration last night. This was one label he was going to particularly enjoy painting.

 **Burke residence, Brooklyn. Sunday afternoon**

"I may be a little stiff tomorrow, but it was worth it." El hugged Peter one more time when they walked into the house. "This has been the perfect morning. You made me pancakes. You gave me my first ice skating lesson. We even shopped for clothes." El sighed with contentment. "Why don't we do this every Sunday?"

Peter hung up his coat. "We may have to leave out the clothes shopping in the future, but you were a star on ice."

"All those dance lessons weren't in vain, after all." El twirled around the floor. "You were a wonderful teacher. Very patient. I'm ready to take to the ice at Lynx Mountain. Now all I need do is sign up with their new ace ski instructor."

"Oh no you're not. You have to promise me you'll stay far away from the ski area. I'd be so distracted— wishing you were the one I was teaching rather than Lily—that I'd blow my assignment."

"I'll take that under advisement. If you'd let me go ahead and buy those ski clothes we found for you, I'd be much more receptive to your suggestion."

"Before any clothes buying occurs, I need to check how much is left in the budget for reimbursements. This op is going to be expensive enough without new wardrobes." Peter walked over to the dining room table and picked up the newspaper. "No more clothes talk. I'm going to sit down, read the paper, work the crossword, and watch hockey. That's my idea of the perfect afternoon, as long as you're here with me, that is."

"You do have a way with words, sir," El said as she tossed him a kiss. "I'm going to make some tea. Like a beer?"

"Please," Peter said, settling down on the couch with the paper. He'd barely had time to read the news section before they left, but El had already sorted out the ads. He pulled out the sports section and thumbed through the pages to the hockey scores. A postcard dropped out. Sneaky ads. They toss them in everywhere. Peter picked it up to throw it away. When he glanced at the card to see what it was advertising, his stomach twisted with abrupt nausea. Paralyzed, he stared with disbelief at the photo on the card.

"Peter, what is it?" El's voice came from behind him. She sat down next to him on the couch and put a hand on his arm.

"Don't touch it," he ordered, dropping it as if it were a snake poised to bite him. He grabbed the phone, punched the speed dial for Neal, and waited impatiently. _Damn it, Neal, answer the phone_.

El, her face bleached of color, put a hand to her mouth as she stared at the card lying on the cocktail table. Peter sought to reassure her. "This has to be a cruel hoax. Try not to let it get to you." Neal still wasn't answering. _Think, man. Where would he be?_ Peter looked at his watch: two o'clock. At home? At Columbia? Peter dialed June. No answer there either.

El reached for her cell phone. "I'll call Mozzie."

Peter turned on his computer. He didn't have Fiona's number. Why didn't he? He should have. If she only had a cell phone, she wouldn't be in the FBI database.

El looked up. "Mozzie's not answering either."

"Travis mentioned he has a number for Mozzie." Peter called Travis's cell. _Finally. Someone who believes in answering the phone._ Peter briefly explained the situation.

"I'll try to reach him and get back to you," Travis promised. "Richard's here. He may know where Neal is." After Travis hung up, Peter pored over the database records but couldn't find a listing for Fiona.

Travis called back a minute later. He'd been able to contact Mozzie who said he'd been with Neal till about 12:30. Neal had mentioned he was going back to June's to practice songs for his piano bar act.

"I just tried June again," El said. "Still no answer."

"I heard Elizabeth," Travis said. "You want me to go to June's?"

Peter stood up as he talked and walked into the den to open his gun safe. "I'm heading there now. You're on my way. I'll pick you up."

 **June's mansion. Sunday afternoon.**

"That was fantastic." Fiona clapped her appreciation. "Too bad Neal can't take you to Lynx Mountain, June. The people would be lining up for hours in advance to hear you."

"We weren't bad, were we?" Neal said with a grin. They had just sung "One for My Baby," a Frank Sinatra classic.

"I can't remember when I've had such fun," June said. "We need to get together to sing more often." She held out an arm and beckoned Fiona over. "You should join us in one."

"What would be a good trio?" Fiona asked.

"Let's do 'Fever,' " Neal suggested. "I'm feeling the sparks from you two babes standing next to me."

"I love that song," Fiona said excitedly. "Madonna's version was good but nobody can top Peggy Lee."

June put an arm around her. "I knew you were a kindred spirit."

"But an ignorant one," Fiona said with a laugh. "Do you happen to have the lyrics?"

"I must have." June walked over to her music cabinet and started rummaging through the drawers.

"Michael Bublé featured it on a new album," Neal said. "It'd go very well with my Rat Pack persona."

"Found it!" June said triumphantly. "Let's turn up the heat and make this place sizzle."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter pulled up outside Travis's apartment in the Village, Travis was already waiting for him on the street. Peter had tried to reach Neal several times on the drive over but he still wasn't answering.

During the drive to June's, Travis repeatedly called Neal and June's phones but both continued to roll over to their voicemail. Wisely, he made no comment about Peter's breakneck speed. "Should I call up reinforcements?"

"Not till we know what the situation is," Peter replied. "June's place isn't far from the 24th Precinct station. They can respond quickly if necessary."

He'd taken the card along and reached into his jacket to hand it to Travis, who studied it carefully through the plastic sleeve. "I can understand your reaction. The graphics work is excellent."

"We know Azathoth's an expert at special effects. This isn't a surprise."

Peter parked illegally in front of June's mansion. Given that June wasn't answering her phone, Peter saw no reason to announce their arrival by ringing the doorbell. Using his key to unlock the door, he signaled Travis and they slipped inside, weapons drawn. Someone was playing a piano. What was the song? "Fever?" Was it a recording or live? Another one of Azathoth's tricks? Motioning to Travis to accompany him, Peter crept up to the music room and charged inside.

Neal was playing the piano and belting out the song with June and Fiona who were standing beside him. At the sight of Peter and Travis, he stopped mid-chord as all three of them froze. His eyes flitting to Peter's gun, Neal asked, "What's this all about?" Fiona had drawn close to him, white as a sheet. Neal stood up and put an arm around her protectively.

Quickly putting his piece away, Peter growled, "What's wrong with you? Don't you ever answer your phone?" He passed a hand over his hair, a flood of emotions running through him—overwhelming relief that Neal was unharmed mixed with exasperation that neither he nor June answered their phones, blinding rage at Azathoth for having staged the hoax, and anger at himself for letting Azathoth get to him.

Travis tried to defuse the situation. He reintroduced himself to June, explaining about how a threat had been received without going into any of the details. Fiona still appeared shaken, but June took it in stride.

Putting an arm around Fiona, June said, "Let's you and I go into the kitchen and make a pot of tea. The men can manage without us." Turning to Neal, she suggested they use the study.

Neal nodded and led the way to the small study off the music room, closing the double doors behind them.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"I can see why you had the reaction you did. The image certainly looks genuine." Neal put the card down on the table. It appeared to be from one of the Lovecraft card games. On one side it featured a tentacle-faced monster, with the caption of Cthulhu, Lord of R'lyeh. The text on the card read: _Ability: Invulnerable. Action: Force opponent to sacrifice a character_. On the reverse side of the card a man was lying face up in a pool of blood with a massive wound to the chest. His forehead had been branded with the sign of the glowing branch. Neal had to admit, it was an eerily exact likeness of himself. "Azathoth must be getting bored. He misses having us to torment."

"I'm going to head for the office," Peter said. "Based on our last experience, I don't expect to find any clues as to who may have planted this in my newspaper, but maybe we'll catch a break. Someone may have seen something."

"I'll come in with you," Neal offered. He felt partially responsible for having put Peter and El through this. He'd been an unknowing accessory to Azathoth's plot and that was going to haunt him for a while.

"I've already offered," Travis said. "There's not much for you to do now . . . except erase the score of messages on your phone."

"Yeah, about that . . . June hates to be interrupted when she's singing and had turned off the ringer on her phone. I left my cell upstairs. We would've checked in a few minutes." His voice trailed off. Peter had called El as soon as they'd entered the study and Neal had spoken with her too, but that didn't seem adequate for what she'd gone through.

Peter fixed his eyes on him. "You're never doing that again, right? I don't care who you're with or what you're in the midst of doing, that phone stays with you, on and fully charged. Make a replacement battery standard equipment. Got it?"

"Got it." No way was Neal going to argue with Peter now, no matter how draconian the measure. They discussed having Neal move to a safe house, but given that no actual threat had been made, decided against it.

"You should call Mozzie. Tell him everything's okay," Travis said. "I called him to see if he knew where you were. I didn't mention any specifics, but he must be wondering. I don't want him thinking you were abducted by extraterrestrials."

Neal appreciated Travis's attempt to lighten the mood. He could tell Peter was still seething. Neal went ahead and told them what Mozzie had learned about Ydrus.

"I haven't seen any reports about a branch in the States," Peter said. "We need to follow up on that with the Counterterrorism Division."

On their way out, Peter and Travis stopped to say goodbye to Fiona and June. They found them having tea in the breakfast room. June had also put out a plate of sugar cookies. Peter offered a gracious apology for breaking in on the rehearsal and June responded in kind for not answering her phone. The color had returned to Fiona's face, but there was a wariness about her smile to Peter that was going to take more than a sugar cookie to dispel.

After escorting Peter and Travis to the front door, Neal returned to June and Fiona and sat down at the table with them. He wasn't normally a tea drinker, but to keep Fiona company he poured himself a cup.

"Do you need to go in?" Fiona asked.

"No, tomorrow will be soon enough." The silence was awkward but Neal didn't want to go into the particulars of the threat and for once was at a loss for words.

June rose from her chair. "I don't think we'll feel like singing anymore today. I'm going to take my tea and put the music away. You two stay put." As she left, she murmured in Neal's ear for him to fill her in later.

"Fiona, I'm sorry about what happened."

"You don't need to apologize," she said. "I shouldn't have gotten so unnerved. It's just . . . seeing them burst in like that . . . their guns pointing at us." She winced. "I've never been around guns. I'm not a member of the foxhunt crowd. My family doesn't have a country estate. I don't even like watching violent movies."

"I don't like guns either," Neal said. "I don't carry one."

"But you're the exception, aren't you?" she asked.

Neal acknowledged reality with a nod.

"In the U.K. our police constables don't carry firearms. I've made jokes about you being a secret agent, but I never thought your work was that dangerous. You told me about copyright infringements, mortgage frauds, forgeries. I suppose I was being naive, but they didn't sound life-threatening."

"They're not, usually," Neal hastened to reassure her. "This is very rare."

Her face achingly serious, she said, "That threat must have been horrific for Peter to act the way he did. Why are you being targeted? Who would do such a thing?"

"A madman," Neal said, his bitterness leaking into his voice. What could he possibly say that would reassure her? How could he erase the memory of what had happened? "It's like a malicious hack attack. The guy who did this is more bluster than real threat. We tangled with him before. He's trying to yank our chains."

Fiona's eyes were wide with concern. "I assume you're taking precautions. Don't you need a bodyguard?"

"We're being careful," he assured her. They continued to talk for several minutes but he didn't know if he'd succeeded in reassuring her. He was convinced their lives weren't in danger because Azathoth was deriving too much pleasure in tormenting them, but Fiona wasn't buying that argument.

After she left, Neal explained the situation to June and then returned to the loft. He sat at his dining table, his thoughts spinning in circles. He might as well have gone in with Peter and Travis. Was there some other message in the card Azathoth sent? He'd taken a photo of the card before Peter left and searched for it on the internet. The title on the card was Lord of R'lyeh and it depicted a tentacle-faced creature. R'lyeh was easy to research. A sunken city in the South Pacific, it was a prison for Cthulhu, one of Lovecraft's deities who just happened to be a tentacle-faced monster. What? Was Azathoth threatening to transport him to the South Pacific? Neal had been planning on getting out winter gear for Lynx Mountain. Should he get out his swim trunks instead?

After an hour of fruitless research with his speculations growing steadily crazier, Neal gave it up and headed for his studio at Columbia to paint. The band session wasn't scheduled to start for a few hours, and painting was the best way he knew to calm his mind. Once his thoughts stilled, inspiration might strike.

An hour into painting, his cell phone rang. Neal put down his paintbrush and retrieved his phone from his jacket. Travis was calling. "Richard and I are leaving now for Columbia. Can we give you a lift?"

"Thanks, man, but I'm already at my studio."

"Richard was here when Peter called and knows what happened. He suggested an emergency meeting is called for, and I agree."

"Why? Did you find out something at the Bureau?"

"No, but a little advance preparedness never hurt. Richard already spoke with Aidan. We can meet at his studio at Prentis and go to the band session afterward. We'll pick you up at your studio in thirty minutes."

"Not necessary. I'll meet you there."

"Hey, it's cold outside. Might as well take us up on the offer." Travis was an immovable force, and Neal had no choice but to accept. He could understand where Richard and Travis were coming from. If he'd been the one hearing about this happening to one of them, he would have acted the same way. But the last thing he wanted was for them to get involved with Azathoth. He couldn't take the risk. He wasn't worried about himself, but they didn't have any experience in dealing with someone like Azathoth. They needed to stay out of it.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On the drive to Prentis Hall, Richard and Travis had continued to argue that, like it or not, his closest friends needed to know what was going on. By the time everyone had gathered in Aidan's studio, Neal had resigned himself to laying it all out—the malware, the Halloween abduction, the origami at the Museum of Natural History, the flash drive data, and the current hoax.

"So those bruises you had on your throat at Halloween, those were from Azathoth?" Richard asked.

Neal nodded. "Yeah, his personal version of a house of horror."

"I noticed you gave me an odd look when I asked if goblins had attacked you on Halloween."

Neal shrugged. "You can count me out of any Halloween haunted house visits in the future."

"I'd like to see the paintings you made of the experience sometime," Aidan commented.

Neal wasn't sure how he felt about that. It had been painful enough reliving the moments with El and Mozzie. On the other hand, his friends might be more objective about it.

Travis passed around copies he'd made of Azathoth's symbol and the card Peter had received. Neal was relieved to see Travis had only copied the side of the card that showed Cthulhu. "This is the glowing branch Neal was talking about. Azathoth uses it on his malware and also as a signature. Aidan, you work with cybersecurity threats all the time. Have you ever seen anything like this?"

Aidan folded up his copy and placed it in his shirt pocket. "Not offhand, but I'll check around at work."

Richard gave a wry smile when he saw the symbol. "When I was a kid, I was into Lovecraft big time. Do you remember _Alone in the Dark_?"

"The name sounds familiar," Neal said. "Was it a board game?"

"Video game," he corrected. "I can still remember my excitement at getting it for my twelfth birthday. It combined Edgar Allen Poe and Lovecraft elements in a haunted house in Louisiana. Man, I wanted to explore the real thing." Richard chucked. "I used to prowl through the Garden District in New Orleans, looking for it. Finally found a mansion that I was sure was the inspiration for the game. The game won awards at the time for best graphics and most original game."

"I didn't know you were into gaming," Aidan said.

"Yeah, there was a group of us who hung out together and liked to sketch out our own ideas for games. I used to freak my art teachers out with my visions."

"We're going to have to hook you up with Jones and Diana," Travis said. "They're our gamers in White Collar and have gotten heavily into Lovecraft games. They looked into _Alone in the Dark_ to see if any of the scenes in Azathoth's house were taken from it, and they weren't, but he may have gotten his initial inspiration from it." Travis went on to explain the approaches Diana and Jones were taking.

"Is anyone working on the software angle?" Aidan asked. "It seems to me that would be the most effective solution."

"You mean, write antivirus software to fight it?" Travis asked.

Aidan nodded. "Or something much more powerful. Take that malware and make it serve your own purposes. It could be your best weapon ever and if done right, could lead you back to the source."

"Hack the hacker?" Travis's eyes lit up at the thought and Neal knew his had too. If they could turn Azathoth's malware against him and launch a sneak attack, victory could be theirs.

 **White Collar Division. January 31, 2005. Monday morning.**

Monday morning Peter arrived early at White Collar. No one else was there yet. Good. He needed time to reassess. Originally the team was scheduled to finalize the plans for Operation Avalanche. El had said she'd come in for lunch and help him shop for his ski instructor wardrobe. Peter had hoped to spend the afternoon with instructional videos for beginning skiers in order to gain tips on how he should conduct the lessons with Lily. Neal would have been bouncing ideas around like they were rubber band balls.

Now they had Azathoth to contend with.

Pulling out a pad of paper, Peter jotted down his notes for the upcoming briefing with Hughes. He'd alerted Hughes yesterday on the incident and had requested a meeting at eight. Afterward, he'd address the issue at the team meeting. Their efforts to combat Azathoth up to now had been woefully inadequate. As Peter went through the options, he knew he needed another person at the meeting. He glanced at his watch. She was probably still on the subway and could talk.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal arrived at work on Monday, he looked for Peter in hopes of speaking with him before the team meeting. He'd talked with El the afternoon before but didn't know if one apology was going to be enough. He started upstairs but then saw Peter was meeting with Hughes in his office, probably about what happened yesterday.

Neal returned to the bullpen and sat down at his desk, keeping an eye on Hughes's door while scanning the bulletins that had come in over the weekend. ICOM, the International Council of Museums, had sponsored a symposium in Brussels about the increase of art crimes throughout the world. The attendees came from all over the world and included representatives from Interpol and the FBI. Art crimes were now recognized as the third largest source of criminal income with only drugs and the illegal weapons trade ranked higher. Finally. He could have told them that years ago.

With only a handful of agents worldwide engaged in investigation of art crimes and little to no coordination between the museums, there was a growing sense of panic in the art world. Art authentication was becoming more valued as the sums of money paid for artworks skyrocketed. Provenance was the new buzz word. Neal sat back, tapping his pen on the surface of the desk. He'd save this bulletin in his growing folder, code name NYAC. It stood for the New York regional office for Art Crimes, an entity which so far existed only in his imagination. The FBI had seen the wisdom of regional Behavioral Analysis Units. They should do the same with Art Crimes.

Neal heard a door open upstairs. Peter had gotten out of his meeting and was already giving him the double finger point. He looked nearly as grim as yesterday. When he entered Peter's office Neal addressed the issue head on. "How's El dealing with it?"

Peter shrugged. "She's okay. El's no novice at this. She told me when she saw the paintings you'd made of our experiences she knew he'd be coming back. The guy obviously is in love with himself and theatrics. He's missed the attention. I feel he's out there laughing at us right now," he added bitterly.

"Peter, words can't—"

He waved his apology aside. "Don't. It's understandable why you didn't have your phone on." He fell silent for a moment. "How's Fiona? We obviously gave her quite a scare."

Neal didn't try to disagree. "She was pretty shaken up. We talked about it after you left. I dislike guns, but I don't fear them. For Fiona it's different. Her life's always been safe and secure. I don't know that she's ever felt she was in danger … until yesterday."

"I was afraid of that," Peter said with a groan. "I regret like hell that I was the one to make her feel that way."

"You weren't. Azathoth was. That hoax wasn't just on you, El, and me but also on her and June. I've filled June in on what's going on so she can be better prepared if he tries something again."

"Anything I can do to help with Fiona? I could explain or El could. She'd be a lot better at it than me."

Neal didn't answer Peter. Instinctively he wanted to shield Fiona from his life at the Bureau, not have her share it. She shouldn't have to learn how to cope with danger.

Peter interrupted his musings. "You don't tell Fiona much about your work here, do you? It might be easier for you both if you did."

Neal fought to stay sitting when his instinct was to stand up and pace. "But what if it stresses her out too much? I had no choice with what happened yesterday, but if she hadn't been there, I wouldn't have told her. Why put her through that? After all, you hide things from El, and she's your wife. You didn't share the details about our ordeal in October till I had her and Mozzie over to see the paintings I'd made. And you haven't told her about Azathoth having stalked us in October. I'm not saying that's wrong. You're trying to protect her. But she's your wife. Fiona is just my girlfriend. Is wanting to shield her from ugliness wrong?"

Peter shook his head. "No, it's not wrong, but the situation with El is different. It's seldom I hide things from her." He stopped and considered for a moment. "Look, all I'm saying is that you could try to be a little more open. If all she knows is your life at Columbia, that's not a very complete picture." Peter got up and put a hand on his shoulder. "Fiona might surprise you. She could be tougher than you think. You're not going to know if you have a chance together unless you let her in to your world."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _:_ _The Allen Ginsberg quote Neal refers to is one of Mozzie's favorites: "Follow your inner moonlight; don't hide the madness." Mozzie's made it his guiding principle. The Secret Archives at the Vatican Library are real. I've been unable to confirm the private repository at the Louvre which Mozzie refers to._

 _Neal and June's duet, "One for My Baby," was the song Neal and June sang in the season two episode Countermeasures. The Dreamer board on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site has pins of it and "Fever" as well as an illustration of the card Peter finds in his newspaper._

 _Thanks to Penna Nomen for the suggestion to have Neal confront Peter about keeping loved ones in the dark. It's a recurring theme that Peter works on making Neal more open, but Peter is also sometimes guilty of hiding things. In canon he generally escaped being called out on it. In next week's chapter, Neal's words cause him to reevaluate._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	12. Trading Places

**Chapter 12: Trading Places**

 **White Collar Division. January 31, 2005. Monday morning.**

Peter glanced around at the group assembled for the morning briefing. In addition to Jones, Neal, and Travis, Tricia was also attending. Given the topic for this morning, Peter was particularly grateful that she could be present. Diana was on the phone with the Lynx Mountain Ski Resort and would join them later.

In his introductory remarks, Peter explained, "I had filled out a request for Tricia to be assigned to the Azathoth case last week after the raid on the apartment in Flushing, but in light of the events yesterday, she's agreed to start immediately. We'll get caught up with the paperwork later."

"Up to now, our strategy for Azathoth in large measure has been a reactive one," Tricia said. "Although that approach has allowed us to fill in data points, it hasn't brought us any closer to being able to predict what his next move will be and how we may be able to catch him. That's why I'm here. Over the past several years, forensic psychology has made significant strides in investigative behavioral analysis. We're going to use those tools to reveal the person behind Azathoth's mask."

"In other words, we're not going to wait for Azathoth to make his next move," Peter added bluntly. "It's up to us to start calling the shots. I'm challenging each of you to come up with fresh ways to tackle the problem. Azathoth has been thumbing his nose at us. That needs to end now."

"Aren't you ignoring another issue that needs to be discussed?" Jones asked. "You and Caffrey have been targeted twice. What sorts of additional measures should we take? Should we be talking bodyguards for at least a few weeks?"

Not surprisingly Neal immediately protested. "What threat did he make? A joke in very poor taste, yes. But did he send a letter saying I was a target? I don't think this rises to the level of a death threat."

"I agree with Neal," Tricia said. "Azathoth was demonstrating his ability to inflict emotional distress, but nothing else, at least for the moment."

"It's like a chess game," Neal added. "He's moving us around as if we were chess pieces, but we don't know why he's using this particular gambit. He's not going to try to take Peter or me out now because he's enjoying the game too much."

Tricia sided with Neal's assessment, and as a practical matter, having round-the-clock bodyguards for an indefinite period of time was simply not feasible.

"But that doesn't mean there aren't any defensive measures we can take," Travis said, placing a couple of watches on the table. "Here's something that should help."

Neal picked one up and studied it. "Not a bad fake Rolex. You went with the Submariner Faulex. I might have gone with the Sky-Dweller."

"And miss the dive-time monitoring?" Travis countered. "Next time you have to make an emergency getaway from a submarine, you'll thank me."

"What capabilities have been built in to this one that our old watches don't have?" Peter asked, picking up the other watch.

"It's waterproof to 800 feet. An expanded battery means you can record up to three hours of conversation. The GPS is also more precise. This is the same model used by the CIA. It's not standard gear for the Bureau but I requested watches for you and Neal after the discovery of the USB drive. I hadn't heard back so did some calling on Friday. They arrived this morning."

Peter replaced his watch with the new one and advised Neal to do the same. "Thanks, Travis. This is standard equipment for us from now on."

When Diana arrived, Tricia grilled both her and Jones on their Lovecraft strategies. Tricia had been on assignment at Quantico when they first proposed their ideas. She was particularly fascinated by Diana's fanfiction project and wrote rapid notes while listening to her.

"If there's even the slightest chance Azathoth may read it, it's worth pursuing," Tricia commented. "By a careful manipulation of the characters and plots you may be able to create a Lima syndrome, the reverse of a Stockholm syndrome. In the typical Stockholm syndrome, the captive expresses sympathy for the abductor. What we want is the opposite where Azathoth develops empathy toward Neal and Peter. I'd read a study of the phenomenon when I was at Quantico last month, and the results were promising. In some cases the aggressors were manipulated to the point that they released their captives to avoid hurting them."

"In other words, 'these are not the Droids you're looking for,' " Neal said, a grin breaking out on his face.

"Exactly," Tricia agreed. "Diana needs to pull an Obi-Wan Kenobi maneuver where through her fiction she influences Azathoth to behave in a way sympathetic to us."

Diana exhaled noisily. "Remember, guys, I'm a new author. I haven't had the benefit of a Jedi Master's guidance."

"I'm no Yoda," Tricia said, "but if you don't mind, I'd like to help with the character design and plot structure."

Despite Tricia's disclaimer, Diana's enthusiastic agreement couldn't have been stronger if she'd been the Grand Master of the Jedi Order, and the two arranged to meet afterward.

At the conclusion of the meeting the team agreed to schedule weekly briefings with Tricia. Peter hoped they'd use any off time at the resort to refine their strategies for an enemy that up to now was acting with impunity.

Afterward, Neal and Travis approached him. "Travis and I'd like to talk privately to you about another tactic that may not be ready for prime time," Neal said.

Five minutes later, the three of them were sitting in his office and Neal went on to explain, "This was really Travis's idea. Richard had called for an emergency meeting with Aidan yesterday before the band session and we explored it there."

Peter stopped him. "Wait a minute. You told Richard and Aidan what's going on?"

Neal looked uncomfortable as Travis fielded the question. "Richard insisted and I agree, Peter. It does no harm to have extra eyes monitoring for any signs of the glowing branch or other Lovecraft signals."

"Or tentacle-face," Neal added in jest.

Travis didn't treat it as a joke. "That's right. If tentacle-face is walking around on campus, you wanna know about it, don't you?" Turning to face Peter, he said, "You know that Aidan works in cybersecurity, right?" At Peter's nod he continued, "He feels that Azathoth is vulnerable to a software attack, specifically a Trojan horse. Azathoth's malware may be the chink in his armor that we're looking for."

"You got my attention," Peter said. "What are you proposing?"

"One of our difficulties has been our inability to predict which museum Azathoth will hit next. But what if we could lay a trap for him by embedding in museum security software an antivirus program that would not only defend against his malware but also infect it? Ideally it would create trackers which we could use to follow to its source. It would send us a signal when the malware has infected a security program. We may not want to quarantine the malware but simply override it. Keep him unaware that we knew about it. We may be able to prevent the robbery while collecting information that will ultimately lead to his downfall." In his enthusiasm, Travis's words began speeding up. "It could be like Enigma during World War II when the Allies had cracked the Enigma code but didn't reveal they were intercepting the messages till they were ready to strike."

Peter nodded slowly. "Tantalizing concept but how practical is it?"

"Aidan thinks he can do it," Neal said.

"Aidan and I've talked shop during breaks at band sessions," Travis added. "He has the creativity and depth of knowledge of viruses and the software used to prevent them that could make him the right candidate for the job."

Chats during band breaks weren't the only way Travis had become familiar with Aidan's work. Peter suspected strongly that Aidan and Travis had hacked Neal's anklet during Fowler's frame attempt. If that was the case, Travis would have acquired first-hand knowledge of Aidan's capabilities. Peter wished he could ask exactly how they'd managed to hack Neal's anklet, but knew that was one of those annoying secrets about Neal he'd probably never learn.

"Travis and I talked with Aidan about it on Sunday night," Neal added. "We explained the nature of the problem and what sort of solution we'd like to have. The company he works for is a small group of programmers. They met in college and decided to go into business for themselves. An advantage to using them is that they're so small, they'd be off Azathoth's radar."

"I like this," Peter said. "Travis, start the vetting processing immediately and work with Jones to prepare the formal proposal. I'll speak with Jones about it today. Let's fast track this and target it being ready next week for me to take to Hughes. You may have some time at the resort to work on the proposal when you're not watching Neal and me make fools of ourselves."

"Speak for yourself, Peter," Neal retorted. "This week we nail Rinaldi and the Dutchman. Next week we take it to Azathoth."

Diana knocked on the door and Peter waved her in. "Have a seat, Diana. I believe we're through."

Travis and Neal got up to leave, but Diana told Neal, "You better stay put. This concerns you too. I just got off the phone with the resort. I had to convince them to take Peter on as a ski instructor. Fortunately those talking points you'd supplied me with gave me what I needed. Boss, you're scheduled to begin on Friday morning as Peter Lamoureaux."

"Lamoureaux?" Neal's face lit up mischievously. "I like it. Just a hint of _amoureux_. It should set Lily's heart on fire."

"Does _amoureux_ mean what I think it does?" Peter asked.

"Oh yeah – in love," Diana said with a decidedly wicked glint in her eyes. "You're French-Canadian."

"You should like it," Neal said. "Wasn't there a Lamoureaux hockey player?"

"Mitch Lamoureaux," Peter confirmed. "Since when do you follow hockey?"

"I don't. That was research for a job. Best forgotten."

Neal and hockey? Peter didn't know if he even skated. That called out for details, but Diana was trying to move them back on track. "And I checked on your status too, Neal," she added. "The resort is thrilled that Neal Legend is available for the weekend. Miranda must have had no difficulty in signing you up."

A click of heels was heard outside, and El stuck her head in. "Am I too early?"

"Not at all," Diana said. "I was just preparing to discuss the proper attire for Peter Lamoureaux."

"Lamoureaux? Oh, I like that," El said, coming into the room. "My heart is beginning to flutter already." Neal had gotten up to offer her his chair and she murmured to him, "You don't know how happy I am to see you alive and unharmed."

"My apologies again, El," Neal said, tapping his pocket. "Cell phone's on, fully charged."

Peter looked over at the two of them. Sunday had been a wake-up call. When he'd gotten home, he'd given El his full-throttle lecture on safety measures. So far Azathoth had shown no inclination to go after family members, but it was impossible to predict if that would continue. Perhaps it was for the best that El would also be at the resort. At least he wouldn't have to worry about her being alone at home in Brooklyn.

 **Luna's Restaurant, Little Italy. Monday midday.**

"I feel caught in a weird disconnect between the threat posed by Azathoth and going off to a mountain resort as Peter Lamoureaux, ski instructor," Peter admitted to El. "Tricia and I discussed it before the briefing. She and I both agree that it's going to take time to develop an effective strategy against Azathoth. In the meantime if we miss this opportunity with Rinaldi, who knows when we'll have another one."

They were finishing a late lunch after shopping for Peter's wardrobe. El had surveyed discount clothing outlets on the Lower East Side in the morning. By the time they met, she had narrowed it down to one store where the clothes were even ones Peter liked, and the prices didn't make his head swim. And since the store was close to Little Italy, it made sense to stop off at Luna's Restaurant on Mulberry Street before returning to work. They'd finished their meal of black mussels and were lingering over cannolis and espresso.

El put down her fork and gazed at him with sympathy. "Under the circumstances I feel better that you and Neal are going to be away at a resort too. It may also send a signal that you can't be intimidated."

"At first I was worried about you staying at the resort during our operation, but now I believe that may be the best spot. I'm more glad than ever that Mozzie upgraded our security at home."

"I'm sure June's also feeling reassured that Mozzie worked his magic at her place." El fingered her espresso cup. "From what you said, she took your arrival very calmly."

"She did. June's a pro. She took charge of Fiona while we filled Neal in on what had gone on." He shook his head slowly. "No wonder Fiona was shaken up. Travis and I storming in …"

"It wasn't your fault. For all you knew, Azathoth was holding them prisoner."

"Neal talked to me today about the situation. It was Fiona's first time to be in an armed confrontation. That I should be the one—"

"Better you than Azathoth," El interjected.

"It makes me appreciate more than ever how you cope with the stresses of my job."

El shrugged. "When you were first assigned to White Collar, I wanted to believe you wouldn't be placed in as many dangerous situations as would have been the case if you'd been in Violent Crime, for instance. But I've been forced to learn there are no guarantees for any job with the FBI. It's something that families have to learn to accept and deal with, but many aren't able to. It's no surprise the divorce rate among FBI personnel is so high."

"You're proving yet again how lucky I am to have you. I probably talk more about my cases with you than I should but having your wise counsel is a strength I depend on."

"Do you think it would help if I talked with Fiona? I can sympathize with how she felt. I remember all too vividly my reaction when I discovered you were carrying a gun on a date. That's when your job became real to me."

He took her hand and squeezed it. "I'm sure Fiona would appreciate hearing from you. I'd already mentioned it to Neal. You should ask him, too. He may respond to you better, but don't be surprised if he declines. Neal's been shielding his work life from her."

"There's a lot of Sir Gawain in Neal. He's cast himself as the knight-errant and is determined to keep her safe in a castle. But Fiona may want somebody who trusts her enough to let down the drawbridge so they can go off and fight the dragons together."

Was El speaking about Fiona or about herself? Ever since Neal had brought up the subject earlier, Peter had been weighing it over. Hadn't he been guilty of keeping El in the dark?

"Peter, what is it?"

Looking into her understanding eyes, Peter knew what he had to do. He filled her in on the evidence found on the flash drive which Neal had discovered in the apartment in Flushing. El took it well, as he knew she would. She didn't even criticize him for not disclosing it earlier.

"I can understand why you didn't tell me, but you're not going to do that in the future, are you? I want that drawbridge to stay lowered."

Peter winced and took a breath. "Are you ready to face another dragon? This dragon isn't as fierce but may be as much of a challenge."

El looked at him in surprise. "After going that far, you better go ahead and tell me what's going on."

Peter proceeded to explain what had been happening with Henry. El listened in silence as Peter told her how Henry had been discovered to be researching Fowler and now was denying it.

"And Neal knows nothing about this?"

"Correct, at Henry's request. Tricia believes if we don't put pressure on him, he'll eventually do the right thing and fill us in. But we haven't heard anything so far. He's down in South America, doing who knows what. He's Joe and Noelle's responsibility, not mine, but this is getting into a very gray area. I don't have any evidence, and feel I would betray Henry's request if I mention anything about my suspicions to Neal or Noelle. Am I doing the right thing?"

El considered his question. "Tricia could be right. I suspect Henry would much rather be working on the case openly with you and Neal than concealing his activities. Conducting an investigation on his own has to be putting a lot of pressure on him. Perhaps he's seeking a means to make it an official case. Working with you and Neal is a lure that Henry's too much of a honey bear to resist. If you don't scare him off now by telling the others, he's going to want to come in for the honey."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Jones had spent the morning reviewing the recordings from the Rinaldi household. When Peter returned from lunch, he called the others together for Jones to brief them.

"What we learned was that Mandy Rinaldi is one spoiled daughter," Jones said. "We'd only been able to place bugs in the dining room. The other rooms all had live detection devices. Luckily for us, the one in the dining room had been disabled for the party. The trip to the ski resort is ostensibly to celebrate Mandy's birthday, but Max Rinaldi is taking advantage of the weekend to meet with several real estate investors on a proposed golf course community in Westchester. It sounds like his daytime schedule is fully booked."

"Diana, check on that," Peter ordered. "See if you can find out which rooms have been reserved for his use. I want dates, times, names if you can obtain them."

"I'll also get the names for all those holding reservations," she promised. "We'll run background checks on them."

"What did you learn about Lily?" Neal asked.

Jones exhaled noisily. "She likes to party. Big drinker. She was talking with someone, apparently a close friend, and they discussed what hunks might be present at an upcoming bash. Apparently they'd had a party a couple of weeks ago and rented _The Full Monty_." Jones looked pleadingly at Peter as Neal grinned. "Is it absolutely necessary to repeat their conversation about it?"

"In the interest of thorough preparation, I'm gonna need details, Peter," Neal said solemnly.

Peter sighed. "Make the full transcript available to everyone, Jones. This should be adequate for now."

"What were the relations between Max and Lily like?" Diana asked.

"Practically non-existent. The only time they were recorded in conversation was during the toasts. Rinaldi dotes on the girl. During the toasts, he even got up and sang 'Thank Heaven for Little Girls' to her. If Rinaldi has a soft spot, it has to be for his daughter."

"We'll drive up in the van to the resort on Thursday morning," Diana said. "We should arrive early afternoon. The Rinaldis are flying in late in the day. They were recorded mentioning that Mandy had to attend class on Thursday. We'll have plenty of time to get into position. The Rinaldis have booked a suite on the top floor. My suite, in my role of writer, is a few doors down on the same floor. The rest of you will be staying in staff quarters in the basement."

Looking chagrined, Neal said. "Neal Legend is used to a higher standard than that."

Diana was unfazed. "Oh really? I remember hearing tales of you and Henry sleeping in his car on more than one occasion. Now at least you'll have heat. I assume your wardrobe is already well in hand. Do you need it to be vetted?"

"Not necessary. Fiona and June have already weighed in. How's Peter's look shaping up?"

"Once Elizabeth and I are finished with him, he'll be the best-dressed man at the resort," Diana assured the others.

 **White Collar Division. February 1, 2005. Tuesday morning.**

On Tuesday, Travis and Jones were scheduled to spend the day working on logistics for the op. Diana hoped to finalize work on a copyright infringement case she'd been working on for the past two weeks. Neal had stayed home to rehearse his songs. Peter planned to take advantage of not having any meetings to catch up on paperwork.

It was snowing outside, with light flakes coming down. Conditions at the ski resort were the best they'd been in years. It had been a season of near record snowfall. Although Peter wouldn't admit it to the others, he was secretly looking forward to hitting the slopes of Lynx Mountain. Normally about the only time he was able to ski these days was over the Christmas holiday, but this year they'd gone to Hawaii instead. As soon as the paperwork was done, he was going to get out the ski instructor videos and prepare to assume the identity of Peter Lamoureaux, master skier and suave ladies' man. Peter chuckled as he closed the file on the Browning money laundering case. Yes, despite his protests to the others, this was one undercover assignment he could get into.

As he was reaching into the drawer for another file, his phone rang. "Peter, this is Sara. Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Peter sat up in his chair. "No, I'm glad you called. How's the investigation going?"

"We haven't found anything to indicate that it wasn't an honest mistake. The authenticator was interviewed and is reportedly deeply embarrassed. Up to now his record has been spotless, so our inclination is to take him at his word. In an ideal world we should reevaluate the other works he's done for us, but . . ." her voice trailed off.

"I understand," Peter said. "Trying to accomplish that would be a challenge. The works are now at museums or with individuals. You'd have to go to them and explain the first mistake which would be an embarrassment and perhaps cause you to lose customers." He doubted Sterling-Bosch would ever get around to it. Their reputation would be too badly damaged.

"Exactly. We've been told for now to confine our investigation to the Corot." Sara exhaled, her frustration evident. "And even if we had the works reauthenticated, that's no guarantee. I'm developing a deeper understanding of how murky establishing provenance is. Have you been able to piece together any evidence about who did the forgery?"

"The painting appears to have been made by a master forger who's been operating for several years, but so far we don't have a name."

"Hard to believe someone like Klossner would have used a master forger."

Peter hesitated about how much to reveal to Sara about the upcoming operation. Normally details would be kept confidential, but in her role as liaison to Weatherby's she could trace any other dealings Max Rinaldi might have had with either Sterling-Bosch or Weatherby's. If Rinaldi had been involved in selling something else, it could have an important bearing on the case. He decided to go ahead and ask her to research Rinaldi's name for any transactions.

She promised to look into it. "Weatherby's has requested that I be their primary contact with Sterling-Bosch, so I'll be visiting New York more often in the future. They want to conduct a reevaluation of their authentication procedures, and I'll be representing Sterling-Bosch on the advisory panel."

"Congratulations. That sounds like a promotion."

"Thanks, I think. I'll certainly be racking up the frequent flyer miles."

"Neal told me the life of a globetrotter was what you wanted."

"Airport hassles, jet lag, and flight delays are combining to make it not as attractive as I thought it would be," she admitted ruefully.

Peter wasn't going to dispute what she said. Not having to travel was in his opinion one of the tangible benefits of his current job.

 **White Collar Division. February 2, 2005. Wednesday.**

Wednesday, Peter allowed the team to suspend their other work in order to focus on the final preparations for Operation Avalanche. He'd designated Jones to lead the effort and Diana was proving herself to be an able coordinator. With Jones's meticulous attention to detail and Diana's creativity and natural bossiness, the two of them worked well together.

Neal was back at work after a day at home rehearsing his songs. When Diana challenged him about his ability to be a club singer, he'd given an impromptu concert in the bullpen, moving around the desks, singing a cappella, and making smarmy eyes at the women. His actions were so outrageous that everyone was in stitches, Peter included. And after the scare on Sunday, Peter wasn't about to give him grief for dialing down the tension. The kid was a natural ham. He was singing those Frank Sinatra songs as if he were old Blue Eyes himself. From the reactions of the female agents, Neal was going to have no trouble winning over Lily and Mandy.

Peter and El had stayed up late the previous night talking about the weekend. El would drive up with her friends on Friday. They were staying in a different wing of the lodge, and Operation Avalanche shouldn't have any bearing on their activities. El was taking Satchmo since the resort had a dog kennel on the premises. Based on the brochure El had shown Peter, Satchmo's quarters would be luxurious enough to spoil him for any other kennel in the future.

It was fortunate that one of El's friends was a travel agent and had been able to arrange for them to get a special rate, but even so it was expensive. El was trying to finesse a way for it to be called a business expense and was going to speak with the management there about using their facilities for event planning. Peter was rapidly acquiring expertise in the many tax incentives afforded to small businesses. He should take some of that money for them to go on vacation after the op was over. El and he had never taken a ski vacation, but she was already making noises about him teaching her to ski. Someday they might return to Lynx Mountain. The guest rooms had fireplaces. He could see them sitting by the fire late at night, after skiing all day. . . .

Diana knocked on the door, rousing him from his daydreams. "You free, boss? We have one last training session planned."

"Another one?" Peter groaned. "What hasn't been covered?"

"Logistics drill. We need to synchronize our moves."

"For gaining access to the Rinaldi suite?"

"Right, of course." There was something about Diana's tone that deepened rather than eased his suspicions. "We'll use Conference Room L. It's more convenient." Conference Room L was a seldom-used conference room at the end of a long hallway on the back of the building.

Peter descended the stairs to the bullpen and was surprised to see El there. She hadn't said anything to him in the morning about coming to the Bureau. She was deep in conversation with Neal who had a handwritten list he was pointing at. El waved him a greeting when she noticed him standing at the foot of the stairs. She was wearing a pleated skirt with her heels. It didn't look like her normal business attire. Red alarm sirens were blaring in his head and when Neal turned to him, he knew something was up. That mischievous glint in Neal's eyes was the only confirmation he needed.

Peter walked over to El and greeted her, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"You owe it to me," Diana said. "In my role of op coordinator, I asked her to come. El is providing valued assistance. Jones is meeting us in the conference room. He's preparing the equipment."

"And what equipment are we talking about?" Peter muttered to Neal.

"Highly specialized technical equipment," Neal said. "I wouldn't want to bore you with the specs."

El patted his arm. "Relax, hon. You're going to like this, and even if you don't, I'm going to."

She refused to give any further explanation till they'd entered the conference room and the conspiracy became obvious. The large room had been transformed, with the tables moved to one end and chairs pushed against the walls. Jones's "highly specialized technical equipment" was a small stereo system. Diana walked up to the stereo and pulled out a CD from her bag to insert in the player.

"Jones, care to explain yourself?" Peter demanded.

He had the grace to look somewhat embarrassed. "Diana and I realized yesterday afternoon that we'd failed to prepare for one of the main activities being held at the resort, and one which we feel may play a key role in the success of the op."

"Vital role," Neal corrected.

"Duly noted," Diana said with an approving nod. "This is an area where we felt El's assistance would be a great benefit, and when I called her yesterday, she graciously agreed to come in."

"And you didn't say anything to me?" Peter asked in disbelief. "I've been trapped."

Jones continued ruthlessly. "The Lynx Mountain Ski Resort is holding a dance on Saturday evening"— Peter let out a loud moan, causing El to clap her hand over his mouth—"and this will be one of our best chances for you to make a connection with Lily. We have no idea which one of you two studs she'll be most interested in, so you both need to be prepared. Dancing is not something Caffrey needs to practice." Jones paused to raise an accusing brow at Peter. "You on the other hand are a different matter."

Peter gazed with dismay at El. What had she told them?

"Diana called me to ask about your level of expertise, and I had to be honest," El said with a regretful shrug. "You have to admit you haven't exactly been enamored with the thought of going dancing. The last several times I mentioned it, you begged off, and even when we were first dating, getting you to dance with me was an ordeal."

What followed was not as bad as Peter feared. Diana had made a CD of dance tunes. They started off with "Are You Ready for Love" and as the upbeat song began playing and the others started snapping their fingers and jiving, Peter found it impossible not to join in.

After the first dance, Jones cut in to dance with Diana, and Neal took upon himself the role of dance instructor. "Move those hips more, Peter."

"I am moving my hips."

"Not like that. Swing 'em like you mean it." Neal demonstrated with his own gyrations.

"I am swinging 'em," Peter protested, getting frustrated. "It's just my pants aren't so tight as yours so you can't tell."

"You wanna get down low, and bring El in closer." Neal shoved him closer to El.

"Is this close enough?" Peter yelled back, bringing her in to the clench.

"Oh yeah, babe," El murmured in his ear. "I'm melting for you."

"Keep talking like that," Peter whispered back, "and I'll take you dancing more often."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: In next week's chapter, the team heads for Lynx Mountain and a news story from Argentina confirms a long cherished belief for Mozzie._

 _Thanks to Penna Nomen for creating such a fascinating story about Neal and Henry's adventures as Urban Legend in the years after Neal ran away from home. The details can be found in Caffrey Disclosure. At the end of Caffrey Disclosure, Peter had arranged to keep Neal's alias of Neal Legend available for future use, and Neal's taking advantage of it now._

 _There are a few references to The Queen's Jewels in this chapter. The hacking of Neal's tracking anklet by Aidan and Travis and the upgrades Mozzie made to June and Peter's security systems both occurred in that story._

 _Thanks for reading and commenting!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	13. Lynx Mountain

**Chapter 13: Lynx Mountain**

 **Ellington mansion. February 2, 2005. Wednesday evening.**

Neal was still smiling from Peter's dance lesson when he left the Bureau that evening. He'd gotten more than a few looks on the subway platform when he started snapping his fingers and moving to the music going on in his head. Hey, he couldn't help it that he was a musical guy.

When he arrived home, he spotted June getting out of a taxi. She was loaded down with shopping bags and he sprinted forward to help her.

"Thanks, you're a godsend," June said gratefully. "I hadn't intended to buy so much." They walked up the front steps to the house together and she opened the door.

That her bags were heavy didn't come as a surprise. They were from the Strand Bookstore on the Lower East Side, one of New York's best sources for used and rare books. "You bought enough books to last you for months," he commented, helping her with her coat.

"You may be amused at the subject matter. Go ahead and take the books out of the bag."

Neal carried the bags to the bookcase in the living room and began pulling out the hardbound volumes. " _At the Mountains of Madness_ , _The Dunwich Horror and Others_ , _Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos_." He looked up at her. "You must have all of Lovecraft's works here."

"As Mozzie would say, 'Know thine enemy.' I've never read Lovecraft and after that incident on Sunday, I decided it was high time." She walked up next to him and gave him a quick hug. "Next time Azathoth tries to abuse our friendship, I'll be prepared for any Cthulhu madness he may pull. I also bought some works by August Derleth, who supposedly expanded Lovecraft's original vision. Scrounging copies of his works was a particular challenge."

June's thoroughness was impressive and he was looking forward to talking with her about the books, but he needed to pack for the next day. As Neal jogged up the stairs to the loft, he was surprised to hear the TV on. The door was already ajar. He opened it to find Mozzie staring with rapt attention at the screen. Without taking his eyes off the TV, he motioned Neal to sit down beside him on the couch. Neal slung off his coat and sat down as commanded.

"What's—"

"Shhh. Watch."

Neal concentrated on the object of Mozzie's fascination. It was a BBC broadcast of a press conference in Buenos Aires. Photos of an old stone wall covered in vegetation were being shown as the reporter talked about an amazing discovery. An old Nazi hideout had been identified in the jungles of northern Argentina. It was believed to have been built as a refuge for Nazi generals. Several Nazi coins had been found at the site by a visiting American anthropologist who was conducting field work at a nearby village.

"That's Tricia's husband, Mitch!" Neal blurted out when they flashed his photo on the screen.

Mozzie continued to stare glassy-eyed at the screen. "I'd heard an earlier news bulletin that this would be on and knew you'd want to see it too. I've long believed that there's an underground network of Nazis living in Argentina—building secret laboratories and conducting experiments. The truth is out now."

Neal went to his closet to retrieve his suitcase and placed a stack of clothes on the bed to fold while Mozzie educated him about how Nazi clones could be produced in hidden jungle laboratories. "Maybe that's what Adler's doing in Argentina. We were thinking he'd chosen the location because of its inaccessibility, but Adler could have a hidden agenda."

Mozzie's eyes bulged even wider. "You're right. I hadn't considered that possibility. Adler could have discovered their plans hidden in the ruins. With his funds, he could easily finance any research needed to finish the plans." He glanced over at the stack on the bed. "I see you found the corduroy shirt."

Neal picked the shirt up, fingering along the front placket. "Excellent work, thanks. I like the midnight-blue color and it's a good weight." He paused to let his mind roam over the landscape of Nazi conspiracy theories. "Jones had thought that Adler was trying to find a sunken U-boat filled with Nazi looted treasure. But I bet Adler's trying to find it because it contains the master plan for an invasion of Nazi clones. There may even be clones on board, waiting to be awakened."

Mozzie nodded in agreement. "All excellent theories and worthy of more investigation. Do you have Mitch's cell number? I should contact him."

"No, I don't. I doubt you could contact him in any case. Henry told me he'd be out of range in Ecuador and Mitch probably has the same problem."

"Have you met him? What's he like?"

"I met him only once, at the birthday lunch Henry had arranged for me last March." Neal thought back. "He makes an interesting contrast with Tricia. She always projects poise and competence."

"Ah yes, the role model of what a lady suit should be." Mozzie sat back and stroked his chin. "Pant Suit."

"Yes, she does wear pant suits a lot. I can't remember ever seeing her in a dress."

"No, that's her name. Pant Suit."

"I'll tell her. I'm sure she'll take it as a compliment. Mitch, in comparison, seems rather disorganized and a little absent-minded."

"Did his mind seem open to nonconformist theories like Nazi clones?"

 **On the Road. February 3, 2005. Thursday morning.**

The next day during the four-hour drive to Lynx Mountain, the Nazi hideout discovery continued to be a hot topic of conversation. Travis was driving the van, Jones was in the passenger seat in the front, and sitting in the cargo area with Neal were Diana and Peter.

Neal enjoyed ribbing Jones over the hideout. "You were the one who tried to make a connection between Adler and the Nazis. Do you think Adler's hiding out nearby?" Jones had arrived at his theory of a sunken U-boat filled with Nazi-looted assets when he discovered last spring that Adler was suspected of owning a marine salvage company through a shell corporation and Adler's father had worked on U-boats during World War II. The idea had seemed so far-fetched, Neal had been tempted to categorize Jones with Mozzie as yet one more person who had watched far too many Nazi movies or in Jones's case, played too many World War II video games.

"Don't mock me, Caffrey," Jones retorted. "When Adler's castle in the jungle is discovered, then you'll thank me."

"What's this about Nazis?" Diana asked, staring at the both of them as if they'd lost their minds. She'd arrived at White Collar in the summer and hadn't heard the speculation about Adler. "Jones, are you simply acting on your desire to command a U-boat?"

Peter's account of what had gone on with Adler took up much of the drive to Lynx Mountain. Neal stopped him several times to add the proper embellishment, with Travis and Jones also claiming their share.

After a break at a fast food stop for lunch, the topic switched to dancing. Neal spent several minutes trying to instill Peter with more confidence. Now that they were getting close to the resort, Peter's cold feet were threatening to turn the van into an iceberg and Neal could sense a disaster of Titanic-sized proportions in the making. "You weren't that bad, Peter, honestly. At the end, with those moves you were putting on El, she was clearly enraptured with the new you."

Diana did her best to help. "You'll be great, boss. You're a natural. Besides, you have that awkward sincerity that women—most women, anyway—find irresistible. Lily obviously likes the strong, silent type since she hit on Jones." Diana glanced over at Neal and bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"What—" Peter had turned his head just in time to see Neal using hand gestures to urge Diana on. "Hey, stop that. You're not helping my self-confidence at all. Let's change the subject before I jump ship. What did you find out about the business meeting Rinaldi's scheduled?"

"Rinaldi's holding a series of discussions with golf course developers," Jones said, swiveling in his chair. "They check out—nothing suspicious in their backgrounds—but that's not surprising. Rinaldi's pattern in the past has been to invest in legitimate concerns. Later, the frauds were committed during the offering of mortgages."

"You're confident we'll be able to copy the files without him being aware of it?" Peter asked. They were pinning their hopes on a clandestine operation which would enable them to move agents in place to seize evidence before the warrant was served.

"When he was in Las Vegas last week he was using a Dell Inspiron laptop," Travis said. "I loaded a USB drive with a program which will override any encryption he may be using and have already trained Neal in its use."

They'd been driving on steep mountain roads for over a half-hour when Jones announced they'd arrive at the resort in fifteen minutes.

Neal turned to look out the front window. The view was breathtaking. Under an azure blue sky the snow sparkled a brilliant white that sunglasses did little to dim. Evergreens draped in snow soared fifty or more feet into the sky. He was able to spot brightly-clothed skiers zigzagging down the trails. There had been near record amounts of snowfall this year and ski conditions were reported to be optimal. Neal had never skied. Never had the desire to. He'd been to his share of après-ski parties in Europe which were much more to his taste. But watching the grace of the skiers sliding down the mountain, he wished for a moment he could participate.

At two o'clock they pulled into the Lynx Mountain Resort, a massive complex consisting of a six-story Alpine chalet and ancillary buildings. The Rinaldis were scheduled to arrive later in the day. They were flying into Burlington where they'd pick up a van.

The resort seemed far larger than its appearance in the photos. The main building was an immense chalet consisting of three wings and over three hundred rooms. Grouped around it were at least eight other buildings of varying sizes. It made Neal feel like he was back in Switzerland.

They first pulled up to the covered portico at the main entrance to drop Diana off. She couldn't resist a final ribbing. "I'll think about the rest of you in your staff accommodations while I'm relaxing in front of the fireplace in my deluxe suite, gazing out at the mountains."

"Have a cognac for me," Neal said longingly. He was normally the one staying in deluxe accommodations. Wasn't he there as Neal Legend, renowned rock star? This was the last time he was going to allow Diana to handle his room reservation.

After Diana got out, Travis drove the van around to the service entrance at the back of the lodge. Neal jumped out as soon as they came to a halt. After the warmth of the van, the mountain air stung his face and he zipped up his jacket. But it was worth it to catch the view of the mountain looming behind the lodge. His breath came out in white clouds casting a mist over his view. Spectacular. He itched for his paints. The mountain with low-lying clouds in front, perhaps the sun behind it. He'd have to come back in the late afternoon when the snow might have a pink cast from the reflected sunlight.

"Care to give us a hand?" Jones shouted. "You can daydream later."

With a last quick glance, Neal returned to the van and helped the others unload their gear. When they checked in at the staff entrance, they discovered their first glitch. They were supposed to have separate rooms, but the winter festival going on had necessitated extra staff which meant the number of rooms was not adequate for the demand. They were going to have to double up on rooms. Travis opted to bunk with Jones and Neal would have Peter as a roommate. "This will be fun," Neal said, with a grin. "I'll be able to pester you with questions about your adventures with Lily all night long."

Peter shook his head vehemently. "Think again. You're the one who'll be entertaining me."

The four of them walked down a narrow hall to their rooms. When Neal opened the door to their quarters, he surveyed the Spartan accommodations gloomily. They were in the basement, so no windows. Clearly no minibar, but not even a coffeemaker? He supposed he should feel fortunate they did have a bathroom, but the beds looked ridiculously small. Were they twins? In the final indignity a card on the dresser said there was no housekeeping service.

Peter looked over at him and chuckled. "Not up to your usual standard?"

"It's a far cry from the last time we were roommates. Remember? I'd handled the accommodations then. Panoramic views of Saint Louis and the Gateway Arch from the windows. Marble bathroom with soaking tub—you could use one of those after a day on the slopes—king-sized beds, big screen TV, minibar. Where's our minibar, Peter?"

Peter snorted. "Ah yes, Saint Louis. Let's see—you were a criminal, on the run, and hacking up a lung from some plague you'd no doubt caught from jumping across roofs in winter. I was on the verge of arresting you. You sure you want to revisit the good old days?"

"But you didn't arrest me. Didn't even come close. You were so dazzled by my brilliance, you recruited me on the spot."

"Don't you still have that t-shirt I lent you? I could bring charges you know." Peter's laughter was canceling out the full dramatic effect of his threat.

"Didn't I return it? You were probably so excited at the thought of recruiting me, it slipped your mind." Neal started hanging up his shirts. "So, roomie, what are your plans?"

"I'm going over to the ski facility. Stow my gear. Get the lay of the land. How about you?"

"As soon as I finish unpacking, I'm heading for the bar to prepare for my debut performance as a lounge lizard."

The Wolverine Piano Bar was located off the lobby of the hotel. Midafternoon, there were only a few people in the lobby and none in the piano bar. Neal stopped to check out the large poster of himself on the way in. He hadn't performed on the East Coast as Neal Legend since last summer and wondered if many people at the resort would have heard of him.

The bar was paneled in warm oak the color of brandy. Art deco upholstered club chairs were grouped around cocktail tables. The room was large but had an intimate feel with soft lighting provided by frosted glass torch sconces. Neal brushed his hand along the keys. The piano was a good one, a Kawai finished in polished mahogany. He sat down and played a few arpeggios and was pleased at the responsive action of the keys. The piano had a warm, mellow tone which would suit his voice well. As Neal began to sing, he imagined a martini by his side, the room filled with patrons listening to him croon.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Shortly before eight o'clock Peter strolled into the bar. He looked for Neal but didn't see him in the room. Not surprising. He wasn't due to perform for a few minutes and probably wanted to make a dramatic appearance. Peter sat down at the table reserved for him and ordered a beer. Most of the seats were already full and the few empty tables left had been reserved. Peter smiled. Neal would be pleased at the reception.

Neal had alerted him that the Rinaldis had reserved a table close to the front and the one he'd picked for Peter was close by. Peter noticed Diana sitting on the other side of the room. She was typing on a small laptop. Her cover was a mystery author, but she was actually going to be working on her Lovecraft story. She was wearing a tight-fitting cocktail dress in the hopes of catching Max Rinaldi's eye. Neal had advised Peter at length about what he should wear for the evening. Peter had thought El was an exacting critic. Little did he suspect Neal was even worse.

Still he'd have to give Neal points. He'd buttered Peter up with so many compliments on how good he looked that Peter was starting to feel better about the operation. He'd been practicing his lines. He was now Peter Lamoureaux, suave ladies' man. He could do this.

At eight o'clock Neal entered the room and walked over to the piano, nodding with a smile to the scattered applause. He started out with a mellow version of Phil Collins's "In the Air Tonight," and then moved into "Can You Feel the Love Tonight." As Peter listened, he was struck by how good he sounded. Lily was going to be putty in his hands.

Neal was still singing when the Rinaldis walked in and took their places at the table. Both of the women were wearing cocktail dresses. Lily's was not quite as short as her daughter's but to make up for it, her neckline plunged even lower. Max Rinaldi was wearing an open collar silk shirt and jacket. He was beaming expansively at his daughter. Lily's eyes flitted around the lounge, pausing at Peter, who tried his best to look nonchalant as he watched Neal.

Neal had advised him to play it cool during this first meeting and pretend not to notice her. Peter wished he'd thought of an excuse like Diana's so he could be absorbed in something else. He should have brought a ski magazine along.

Max ordered what appeared to be Scotch for himself and Lily, and a club soda for his daughter. Mandy was a leggy-looking eighteen-year-old, with long black hair. Neal mentioned she was a dancer and she looked it, at least by the length of her legs, but she was a little too stacked to be a ballerina.

Throughout the evening Neal interspersed Frank Sinatra hits with more contemporary songs. And although he may have been singing to the entire room, there was one teenager at a front table who had eyes for only him. When Neal launched into an emotionally charged rendition of "Heaven," Mandy looked like she was going to swoon into her club soda.

Shortly afterward Max and his daughter went up to talk to him. Max was smiling . . . appeared to be making a joke. Mandy was looking starry-eyed at Neal and was blushing at whatever her dad was saying.

As Peter watched them, he became aware of eyes boring into him. He slanted a glance over at Lily, who was eyeing him disconcertingly closely. He'd heard women complain of being undressed by a guy's overly attentive stare. Now he knew what it felt like. Peter suppressed a sigh of relief when Max and Mandy rejoined Lily at the table.

Neal was talking into the microphone, explaining how his next song was for a very special someone who'd just turned eighteen. He started singing "Tiny Dancer," and kept his eyes on Mandy for much of the song. Lily and Max exchanged a few murmurs while looking at Mandy. Peter noticed that Max started singing along with Neal and midway through, Neal called Rinaldi on stage to sing the refrain with him. Peter made a vow to always sit in the back during future performances. He remembered all too well being called on stage during the Thanksgiving concert. And although he'd had enough beers that he actually enjoyed it—not that he'd ever admit it to Neal—that had been a one-shot occurrence.

Peter glanced over at Diana. She was enjoying the performance too, her expression surprisingly soft when she watched Max with his daughter. Peter sighed. Too bad the guy was such a crook. This was not going to end well for him and his daughter.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The Rinaldis left the bar at 9:30 and Peter returned to his room shortly afterward. Lily's ski lesson was scheduled to begin at nine the next morning. He planned to arrive well in advance to familiarize himself with the beginner trails and get in a little early morning skiing. Even though he'd studied the layout all week, that couldn't compare to actually skiing the trails. Before going to bed, he planned to review one more time the ski instruction video he'd brought along.

At 11:00, Neal still hadn't shown up and Peter headed for bed. Sure enough, he'd no sooner fallen asleep than Neal wandered in. He was trying not to disturb Peter, gathering up his sleepwear and heading for the bathroom to change, but Peter was a light sleeper, especially when he was having to sleep alone.

"Excellent performance tonight, blue eyes."

"Sorry I woke you up."

"I'd just gone to bed. Go ahead and turn on the lights."

"I saw Lily give you the once over. You should have an easy time of it tomorrow."

"I wish she'd been more interested in you."

"I don't think I'm her type. Mandy, on the other hand . . . After you left, she returned to the bar. I was chatting with a couple of the customers who'd heard me perform last summer, and she left before I had a chance to talk with her. Hope to make a connection tomorrow."

While Neal finished getting ready for bed, Peter reviewed his options. He'd known it was going to come to this. On the bright side, maybe Lily would break her leg and solve the crisis. Could he give her a tiny nudge? Peter thought about calling El, but she was probably asleep. . . .

Neal emerged from the bathroom and flopped on his bed. "Can't sleep, roomie? Thinking about tomorrow?"

"What the hell am I going to talk to her about?"

Neal crossed his arms behind his head and looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Gigi."

"What? You mean the movie?"

"Maybe eventually, but I was thinking of her dog. Lily has a Yorkshire terrier named Gigi which, judging by the way she acted on Friday, she dotes on. You could talk about Satchmo, ask her if she owns a dog . . ." Neal sat up in bed and looked excitedly at him. "This could work! Women love to talk about their pets. You like talking about Satchmo. You'll bond over your pups."

Peter sat up too, but he didn't share Neal's enthusiasm. "That's crazy."

"Why do you think so many single guys have dogs? Not because they're dog lovers, although they may be, but because dogs are chick magnets. You walk down the street with your pooch, and women can't resist you. Confess, hasn't it happened to you and Satchmo?"

Neal was right. Come to think about it, women did seem remarkably friendly around Satchmo. "I could pick up Satchmo at the kennel and take him with me?"

"All in good time. Lead up to it. Make her want to come back for more."

"Neal!"

"You know what I mean. Here's what you do. You ask her why she named her dog Gigi. She'll probably say _Gigi_ was her favorite movie. Why else would she name the dog Gigi? Did you ever watch _Gigi_ with El?"

Oh, jeez. If he admitted it, would Neal tease him the rest of his life?

"Peter?"

"I don't know if El ever saw it, but . . ."

"You gotta tell me. How can I help you if I'm not in possession of all the facts?"

"My mom loved the movie. She got a VHS tape of it as soon as it was available and then bought the DVD version. I can't remember how many viewings I've sat through."

"Next time I see Betty, I must thank her for giving you such an excellent education. This is perfect."

"And why are you saying that?"

"You can discuss _Gigi_ with Lily. What a wonderful ending it has. How romantic it is. The only bad part was that Gigi sang to a cat rather than a dog. You're French Canadian. You could even sing a little. Just like Louis Jourdan, but replace Gigi with Lily." Neal started singing Gigi himself.

"No singing. There will be no singing."

"You sure? You could still call her Lily with a French accent. She'd go nuts. Chicks dig French accents, trust me on this. Say after me: Li-LEE."

"Lily."

"Chérie is the name of El's character in _Bus Stop_ ," Peter said, interrupting him. "That's the play she's rehearsing at her Community Theater."

"Make that work for you. Channel El when you think of Lily. El's playing a part. So can you."

 **On the Slopes. February 4, 2005. Friday morning.**

"Satchmo loves to play in the snow." After a half-hour lesson, Peter had called a time out to let Lily rest. He was putting Neal's tips to good use and was surprised at how well they were working. They'd been talking about their dogs for at least ten minutes. _Thank you, Neal_.

Lily's face lit up. "So does Gigi! Have you ever taken Satchmo on the slopes?"

"Sometimes when I go cross-country skiing. Many of the snowshoe and cross-country ski trails are dog-friendly. We don't have one yet at Lynx Mountain but plan to." As Peter talked about his skiing adventures with Satchmo, Lily seemed to enjoy his tales. She related several stories about Gigi and how she regretted she hadn't brought Gigi along. Then they moved on to the movie. Neal was right. Lily had watched it with her mom, and those shared experiences led to tales of their moms. By the time Peter resumed the lesson, he was as comfortable with Lily as if she were a neighbor.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was nearly ten o'clock by the time Neal pulled himself together to stroll over for breakfast at the Eagle's Nest Restaurant in the lodge. He felt like he was on vacation, and a well-deserved one. He'd put in a full day's work yesterday plus overtime at the piano bar, not to mention coaching Peter. He'd call this comp time.

Peter had already left the room by the time Neal got up. He vaguely recalled waking up when he heard the sound of Peter's electric razor, but his brain must have processed all associated sounds as non-hostile and let him sleep. Peter's first class with Lily was scheduled for nine o'clock. He should be on the slopes with her now. Neal chuckled at the thought. Had he taken his advice and talked about Satchmo?

The restaurant had only a few other sluggards. Neal sat down at one of the tables next to the window where he could watch the skiers. A waitress came up and brought him coffee and orange juice without being asked. He placed an order for brioche French toast with maple syrup and berries—yes, he was definitely feeling the vacation vibe—and sighed in contentment. While he waited for his order to arrive, he watched the skiers. Since this was winter festival weekend, there were plenty of families on the slopes. He wondered if he'd be able to spot Peter and Lily. Peter had a red ski jacket, but that appeared to be the color of choice. It wasn't going to be easy to identify him.

"Excuse me." Turning his head, Neal saw Mandy had come up behind him. Her face flushed, she looked shy and hesitant. "I just wanted to thank you again for last night. I was so excited when I heard Neal Legend was going to perform. I've been following you and your group for years." Mandy's eyes shone with infatuation. Neal had seen that look before on some of the fans at Urban Legend concerts. Mandy plainly had a crush on him.

"Would you like to join me?" he asked, smiling at her. He offered to order her something and she picked a bowl of yogurt with fruit.

Over the next hour, Neal found out much more about Mandy than he'd expected. With the help of only a few questions to direct her, she divulged practically the entire history of her family: her school life, how she wanted to work in the fashion industry, what she thought about her parents—apparently her dad was seldom around and a pushover and her mom was domineering. Mandy longed for the freedom she expected to have in college. She craved details about Neal's adventures on the road and Neal spun a few stories for her.

"I was surprised—and thrilled—when I heard you were going to perform. This isn't your usual style of music."

Neal was already prepared for that question. "I was booked to perform at the Rio Las Vegas as part of a Rat Pack Review. I wanted to try out the songs in a more casual setting and combine it with some down time. This made the perfect gig. What did you think?"

"I loved them! Your songs were so romantic. You made me feel like you were singing just to me." Mandy propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. "I could gaze into your eyes forever. I get lost in their blueness." She sighed and leaned over further. "I must be in heaven."

A change of topic was clearly needed to tamp down the flames before a major conflagration erupted. Neal gave her a quick smile and asked, "Do you ski?"

She shook her head. "Mom's learning. She's at a lesson right now. She's pushing me to take lessons too, but I'd rather do something, anything else."

Neal grinned knowingly. "Your form of rebellion?"

She giggled self-consciously. "I guess. I skate. There's a beautiful rink here."

"I've never ice skated. Did a little roller skating as a kid."

"I could teach you," she said excitedly.

"You wouldn't mind? I'm sure I'd be the world's worst klutz."

"I'd love to teach you. Would you like to go now?" Mandy was already standing up.

"Won't your dad miss you?"

"He's busy in meetings all day. We're not getting together till the evening. C'mon, let's go."

And so a half-hour later Neal and Mandy were skating together on the ice. He wasn't lying. He never had skated before. Judging by the grace of her pirouettes and twirls as she skated circles around him, Mandy must have skated for years. The ice on the rink had a glassy smoothness. Music was being piped in and there were several other skaters—adults, kids, and parents teaching their kids. Neal caught on quickly. His old roller skating skill helped, and balance had never been a problem, but he faked the awkwardness of a novice. Mandy on ice was a different woman. Much more self-confident, she'd lost her initial shyness.

As Neal settled into his role of novice skater, he enjoyed teasing her, exaggerating his awkwardness, and hamming it up on the ice. The music being played included some current popular songs: "Me Against the Music," "Give it Up," "Amazing." Neal and Mandy added some dance moves as they skated. She really was an excellent dancer. Neal was looking forward to dancing with her on Saturday.

Mandy was a sweet kid. If only she'd go easy on the makeup, she'd be quite attractive. As it was, her false eyelashes reminded Neal of spiders. He found himself staring at them, half-expecting them to spin a web around him and sting him with poison.

Elton John's "Are You Ready for Love" was playing, a song Neal had sung the night before. He started singing along with Elton. Mandy suggested they skate arm in arm, and the next thing he knew her hands were gliding over regions best left unexplored. Neal gave her a grin and removed her hand, but that didn't help much. Mandy put her head on his shoulder and started nibbling his neck. The next thing he knew, the spiders attacked. She skated in front of him and pulled him to her. Wrapping her arms around him, she proceeded to suck his lips off.

Time for a change in strategy, and fast.

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: I appropriated the discovery of a Nazi hideout in northern Argentina which was announced in March 2015 for this story. You can find photos of the ruins on the Dreamer board on our Pinterest Caffrey Conversation site._

 _Poor Mandy! She's got it bad. Gazing into Neal's blue eyes can be dangerous. I derived inspiration for the character of Mandy from Ashley Iaconetti of Bachelor in Paradise Season 2 who had a severe crush on one of the other participants. She's pinned to the Dreamer board as well as scenes of the Lynx Mountain Resort and the songs Neal performed, including Matt Bomer singing "Heaven" from the Magic Mike XXL soundtrack._

 _I revisited some of the great scenes from Penna Nomen's stories in this chapter. Peter and Neal were roommates for the first time in Caffrey Conversation. Henry's birthday party for Neal occurred in Caffrey Flashback. Diana got the shortened version of Neal's history with Adler. You can find the details in Caffrey Flashback._

 _As always, thanks for reading and your comments! In next week's chapter, Neal and Diana plot a new strategy and El arrives at the resort._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	14. She's Got a Way

**Chapter 14: She's Got a Way**

 **Lobby, Lynx Resort. February 4, 2005. Friday afternoon.**

"And that wasn't the worst part." Neal was sprawled in an armchair across from Diana, his legs stretched out, as he related his experiences with the infatuated Mandy. She'd finally left him at two o'clock when she was due to meet her mom for a late lunch. Neal had returned to his room to change his clothes and then went on the prowl for Diana. As expected, he found her sitting in the lobby, typing on her laptop. The lobby at the Lynx Resort was furnished with several U-shaped conversation groups with rustic armchairs and cocktail tables. Diana had chosen a chair close to the main passageway where she could keep an eye on anyone arriving.

At the moment though she was regarding him with a look of faint sympathy. "What did you expect? The way you were singing last night, no wonder she has a crush. If you're going to warble 'Heaven' like that, you have to be prepared for the consequences."

Neal flashed her a sheepish grin. "All right, I may have gotten a little carried away with that song, but I didn't believe Mandy's hormones would go that far into overdrive. She's just a kid, after all."

Diana was unimpressed. "Mandy's only a couple of years younger than you."

"Wait a minute. That's a big seven years we're talking about."

She dismissed his argument with a shrug. "Like I said, you're meant for each other."

"I'll continue to stay friendly with Mandy but I've no intention of being seduced by her—your snorts aren't helpful, you know." Neal put his elbow on one of the arm rests and propped his chin on his hand. "Besides, she's a good kid, even if she is delusional. I don't want to hurt her." Neal leaned forward and added in a low voice, "She told me she wants me to be her first."

Diana stopped any pretense of working on her laptop and laughed in his face. "Be gentle, Caffrey."

"I give up. You're no help at all."

"All right, Lothario, give me a chance to think." Diana did have the grace to at least look like she was considering options. "Why don't you just tell her you're gay?"

"That won't work," Neal said, shaking his head. "Neal Legend has a certain reputation. She'd know I was lying."

"Here's an out-of-the-box solution. Tell her the truth. You already have a girlfriend."

"I did. She doesn't care. She says she'll happily be my mistress. Can you even have a mistress if you're not married? It's a curse. She said the desire to run her fingers through my hair is driving her insane. I may have to shave my head."

"I might be willing to help you out, but I'm supposed to be making a play for Max Rinaldi. I can't go after you both. Well, I could, but don't you think that'd be a little disingenuous?"

"Yeah, you're probably right. I'll fall back on option B. Eat raw garlic. That'll be the kiss of death." Neal sighed and gazed around the lobby. "So I take it you haven't seen Max all day? Mandy said he was going to be in meetings till the evening."

"She was right. I did see the bodyguards. Lamar made an appearance at 10 a.m. and Rocko wandered down at 2 p.m. Each one spent about an hour before heading back upstairs. I've been spending my time between the lobby and the restaurant."

"Travis and Jones have been spelling you, right?"

"Yes, and on the plus side, my story's coming along very well."

Neal grinned. "Details, please."

She looked at him skeptically. "You sure you want to hear about this?"

Neal leaned forward in anticipation. "Definitely."

"All right, but don't go poking holes in my portrayals. You and Peter have been recast as Neal Carter and Peter Gilman. I usurped two of Lovecraft's heroes, Randolph Carter and Walter Gilman, to create them."

"Wasn't Carter the main hero of Lovecraft's stories?"

"Don't look so smug. In my stories he's bookish and shy—an introvert like his namesake."

"That doesn't sound right. I can see you need my assistance with character development."

"I already obtained the Tricia stamp of approval. Besides, Carter has his redeeming features. He's no coward. He plunges into one dangerous situation after another without any regard for his personal safety, and Peter's right there with him."

"I like him better already. Does Peter know about his alter ego?"

"Not yet. I'm still very early in fleshing out the characters. I also haven't decided if this story will be a one shot. There are pluses and minuses. Tricia advises we reevaluate after I'm further along."

"Which of us will get shot?"

"Neither." She shook her head impatiently at him. "As one of the heroes in my stories, you really should learn the terminology. A one shot is like a short story, posted in one installment."

He'd been scanning the lobby as they were talking and broke in to comment, "El's arrived." She was standing with two other women at the registration desk. "Those must be Sylvia and Lisa." The three women were chatting with each other while checking in. Neal noticed El's eyes flit over to his direction. "Which building are they staying in?"

"They're in the east wing."

The Rinaldis and Diana were in the north wing, so there'd be little likelihood of them bumping into each other in the corridors. But the public rooms were a different matter. Despite his reassurances to Peter, Neal felt it was inevitable that Peter and El would wind up in the same area at some point. If Lily were with Peter, what would he do if he spotted El? Neal wasn't worried about El—she'd bring her acting skills into play—but Peter? Neal hoped he could be there to bail him out if necessary.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

At five o'clock El strolled into the lobby bar. They'd come down from their suite a few minutes earlier. Sylvia and Lisa had headed for the ski shop to sign up with a ski instructor. El had been tempted to accompany them as she was curious to see the ski setup, but she was concerned that Peter and Lily might be there. After all of Peter's lectures, she didn't want it to look like she was spying on him, not that she wouldn't love to.

Sylvia and Lisa were going to meet her afterward at the bar. She'd spotted it when they'd first walked in. Set in a corner of the airy lobby, it had tall floor-to-ceiling windows where she could sit and fantasize about being on the slopes. El sat down at one of the small tables by a window and ordered a chardonnay from the waiter.

As she sipped her wine, she tried to spot Peter among the skiers. He'd be with Lily. What would Lily look like in ski attire? What would a bombshell wear? How tight-fitting could a ski jacket be? El smiled as she imagined a scene—Lily leaning provocatively over her ski poles and Peter fumbling his lines as he tried to look suave. Was Lily really a man-eater? How would Peter survive the ordeal? He was such a worry-wart. El hoped Neal could get him relaxed enough that he'd enjoy himself.

Last fall El had played a femme fatale at her community theater's production of _The Hollow_. Peter had attended enough of those performances that he should have picked up some tips. But when it came to flirting, he really was impossible. She was probably never going to find out from him how it went, but she had more hope for Neal. She'd have to take him out to lunch when they got back and not invite Peter.

"Wow, what a view! If they could figure out how to bottle it, they'd make a killing." El turned her head to see a man had walked up next to her. Cashmere turtleneck, slim slacks, Italian loafers, a tan that didn't seem real in winter, and a cheeky grin that was surprisingly infectious. "And the mountains ain't bad either." He sat down next to her and extended his hand. "I'm Max. And you're the prettiest sight in this entire resort."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The sun was low in the sky when Peter returned to the locker room in the ski shop. A few of the other pros were also there and he chatted with them while he sharpened his skis. The main topic wasn't skiing but the impending arrival of a winter storm and how it would impact outdoor activities. The storm was at least a day away but the early forecasts were for several feet of snow.

Lily had been an eager pupil. She'd met him at nine and they'd spent two hours on the slopes. Afterward she invited him to join her for an early lunch in the alpine café next to the ski shop. Peter thought that would be enough, but she wanted an extra hour afterwards. She was a willing learner and surprisingly charming. Must be that southern accent. Peter had a better time than he'd expected. Based on what Neal and Jones had said, he'd thought he'd have to fight her off, but she wasn't that way at all.

Over soup and sandwiches they discussed favorite movies—a safe topic—then Peter had skillfully steered the conversation around to her family. He thought he'd handled it extremely well, even injecting a few compliments. How could a husband leave such a lovely wife to her own devices was one of his best. Peter gave himself two points for that one. By the end of the afternoon lesson, Lily was handling the beginners' slope quite well. She did appear to fall unusually frequently. He was growing suspicious she was doing it deliberately so he'd need to help her up.

After Peter showered, he planned to find Neal and they could grab something to eat before Neal's next performance. Peter could have used the back entrance to the staff quarters, but he decided to walk through the lobby in case Neal was there waiting for him. The way he'd complained about their room, Peter was sure he was spending the minimum amount of time there.

As he strolled through the lobby he didn't spot Neal, but who was that in the bar area? Peter ducked behind a pillar and looked again. There was no mistake. He grabbed a magazine from a display of tourist information and sat in a chair where he could watch what was going on. His worst fears had just been realized. He was being forced to do surveillance on El with Max Rinaldi.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Then Lisa and Sylvia showed up, and he left, _finally_." Peter jabbed his fork into his Swiss steak. Too bad the steak was so tender. Sawing something right now would be so satisfying. "Travis is continuing to monitor the situation, but Rinaldi's probably already gone upstairs." Peter was having an early dinner with Neal in the staff cafeteria. Jones planned to join them but hadn't shown up yet. Travis had taken over Diana's lobby surveillance so she could prepare for the evening.

"Calm down, Peter. There's nothing to worry about." Neal was treating it as one big joke. "Just because Max flirted with El, that doesn't put her in mortal danger." He eyed his grilled catfish mistrustfully. "We should have ordered room service."

"There's no room service for staff. Not even for Neal Legend." Peter stirred his mashed potatoes, making a moat around his steak. He needed to make a moat around El, stock it with alligators . . . "I texted her. She's going to give me a call when she's free. She said not to worry."

"You see—El's fine, plus I'm sure she enjoyed the attention. You know, if Max wants to flirt with her, we should take advantage of it. Nothing's going to happen to her and I bet she'd love being a part of the sting."

Peter groaned. "But he was supposed to like Diana."

"I talked with Diana. He went straight past her—didn't even give her a second look—he'd set his sights on El and was oblivious to everyone else in the lobby. We couldn't have asked for a better situation. If El leads him on—"

Peter glared at him. "Wait a minute. That's my wife you're talking about."

"Relax, will ya. El simply flirts back a little. She'll treat it like one of her roles for community theater. It's not like she's going to be meeting him in his suite."

"Don't even say that."

Neal gave him an exasperated look. "Peter, she'll be in public areas the entire time with throngs of people around. What could happen to her? Rinaldi's never been known to be violent. There's no whiff of a report of him selling women into slavery. El could provide us with the ticket we need to make sure he's not in the suite when we want to be there. That's the whole point, isn't it?"

"When she calls, I'll talk with her about it. No promises. But you haven't mentioned anything about Mandy. How'd it go?"

"I'm having the opposite problem. Mandy's throwing herself at me, and I'm walking a tightrope of wanting to spend time with her but not lead her on. It's not going to be easy."

"How tough can it be? She's barely eighteen."

"That's eighteen with raging hormones. On the plus side, I did learn how to ice skate. We spent a couple of hours on the rink."

Peter sympathized with how Neal felt. It was unfortunate a minor had to be involved in the case. The fact that Mandy was now eighteen didn't make it any easier. "Is this going to be a problem?"

"I hope not. I got to hear a lot about her life at home. She idolizes her dad which is making me feel even more like a heel for what we're doing. I hate having to crush her delusions about him."

"That's going to be unavoidable. We're here to take down her father."

"I know but I'd like not to add to her pain if I can avoid it."

Between bites, Peter said, "We need to see what's inside that suite. With the reservations Max has made for the conference room, it appears that our only chance to gain access to his computer is on Sunday."

"I talked with Jones and Travis about it this afternoon. Travis had been able to enter the conference room in the guise of a maintenance man. He got a quick look at the laptop Rinaldi's using. It's the same one he had in Las Vegas. It should be easy to make a ghost image. He'd trained me on the procedure with various laptops earlier this week. I don't anticipate any problems."

"You think you can get Mandy to show you the suite?"

Neal nodded. "I've got an idea that may work. I'll know tomorrow."

Neal was being far too relaxed about this. He had no qualms about diving into a mission on a wing and a prayer. But not Peter. A plan should be prepared far in advance. Massaged, manicured, and rehearsed in meticulous detail. That was a plan. Neal liked to toss all the cards in the air and see which one landed face up.

Jones had arrived and joined them at the table. "What's the verdict on the food?" He'd selected the barbecued pork chop with sweet potato. It looked so good, Peter made a mental note to order it next time.

"Surprisingly not bad," Neal said. "They promote organic foods even for the staff. Diana told me you've established a connection with Lamar."

"Yeah, pure luck," Jones said, slicing into his pork chop. "I was taking a break in the game room, playing _Call of Duty_ , when Rocko walked in. He went over to the foosball table and started pushing and spinning the rods. It was obvious he wanted to play, so I strolled over and started a conversation. We wound up playing for a half-hour. He told me his break would be at the same time tomorrow. We're scheduled to play starting at two o'clock."

"Excellent," Peter said. "We'll work around that time frame on Sunday. Has there been any news on the Azathoth front?"

"Travis and I've been working on that," Jones replied. "We've been reviewing previous museum robberies. Discovered a similar case at the San Francisco Museum last July. It took a while but buried deep in the code was the glowing branch malware. Travis found it. You'll have to ask him for the details. He's convinced that now it will be easier to detect other instances."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

They'd finished dinner and returned to their rooms by the time El returned Peter's call. Neal was changing for the evening and was able to listen to Peter's side of the conversation. The call went just as he'd expected. She was ecstatic at being included, and Neal was equally elated. With El on board to distract Rinaldi, he could convince Diana to make a move on him.

Neal arrived at the piano bar several minutes ahead of time and was pleased to see most of the tables were already filled. The buzz about his previous night's performance must have been positive. Neal noticed the table Rinaldis had used last night was booked for them again tonight. They'd yet to make their appearance. Neal had arranged for El and her friends to have a table near them.

Tonight could be highly entertaining. Neal wondered what El had told her friends. They knew Peter worked for the FBI. She must have told them something so they wouldn't panic that their marriage was on the rocks. El would probably draw her inspiration from a movie, maybe Audrey Hepburn in _Charade_ and pretend that Max was Cary Grant.

El and her friends arrived a few minutes later. She looked enticingly hot in a tight sweater with cigarette pants. The only problem Neal could foresee was keeping Peter from blowing a gasket. He walked in a few minutes later, and Diana arrived shortly afterward. Neal had instructed the hostess to sit Peter on the opposite side of Rinaldis from El and a little to the back. She sat Diana close to the piano on the same side as El. Diana had worn a slinky low-cut cocktail dress in fuchsia. She gave him a sly smile when she sat down.

Neal was feeling good about how everything was falling into place. As he sang "She's Got a Way," the hostess escorted the Rinaldis to their table. Mandy couldn't take her eyes off him. Neal glanced her way but he was careful to look at several other women too.

He then performed a couple of Frank Sinatra songs. Early in the evening Max and Mandy approached the piano and Max asked him to perform "Just the Way You Are," for Mandy. Neal noticed with amusement how Lily took advantage of the opportunity to slip off to talk to Peter.

When Neal sang the song, he put his soul into it and looked at Mandy practically the entire time. At the conclusion, she came up to talk with him. "That was wonderful," she gushed. "You sang it with so much feeling. It was as if your heart was beating next to mine. I think my eyes were created just to look at you and—"

"How about playing one for me?" Diana had sauntered up and draped herself over the piano, forcing Mandy out of the way.

"Sure. Anything in particular?"

"How about 'Your Song'? And sing it like you mean it." Diana was wearing a sensual oriental fragrance rich in sandalwood and musk. She leaned over to whisper in his ear, "Is this seductive enough for you, Caffrey?"

Neal swallowed and nodded. Mandy gave up and moved back to her table.

Diana stayed by the piano as Neal sang directly to her. Role-playing with Diana was exhilarating. He imagined he was in love with Diana, singing songs just to her. She seemed to be into it herself, her expression softening and swaying to the music. He followed up with "One More Night." Maybe they should take their act to Broadway.

After that, Neal was feeling so good, he brought the house down with a rock version of "Piano Man." He was kept busy the rest of the evening with other guests also making requests. Mandy appeared to have given up, at least for the moment, since Diana had moved to a chair right next to him. During Neal's break she monopolized him, not giving Mandy a chance to move in.

Several times during the evening Neal noticed Max eyeing El. At one point Max went over to talk with her and stayed several minutes.

Later in the evening El came up to chat. Neal grinned up at her as he continued to play. "Enjoying yourself tonight?"

El winked back. "Having a blast."

"Any requests?"

"I hear you do a mean 'Fever.' I missed your performance on Sunday. Let's elevate the temperature."

Neal grinned. "You got it."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Poor Mandy!" Diana flopped on the couch with a laugh. "Did you see the dagger eyes she sent me when we left the bar?"

"We were cruel," Neal agreed but he couldn't help smiling too. When his performance was scheduled to conclude, he and Diana were enjoying themselves so much, he'd played a few more songs. Max and Lily left at ten but Mandy stayed till the bitter end. Diana had then whispered in his ear they should leave together and she'd show him her suite. When he got up from the piano, she wrapped an arm around his waist and murmured in his ear, "There's cognac waiting for you upstairs."

Mandy had followed them at a discrete distance but when she saw them head for the elevator she hurried to catch up. Neal had tossed her a look of helpless acquiescence. It wasn't his fault if Diana found him irresistible. Mandy was about ten feet away when the elevator doors closed on them.

Neal gazed around the luxurious appointments of her suite, sighing in envy.

"Go ahead and make yourself comfortable," Diana said, slipping off her heels. "I got this handled."

Neal slid into an armchair in front of the fireplace and sat back while she went over to the fireplace in her stocking feet and turned on the gas. He could get used to being a gigolo.

She fetched a bottle of cognac from a cabinet in the kitchenette and called out, "Put some music on. I brought several CDs with me."

Neal went over to her CD player and rummaged through the collection. He didn't know what Diana's tastes were in music. Given her style, maybe heavy metal? He was relieved to find she'd brought some jazz. He put on _Soul Sessions_ by Jeff Golub.

"Good choice," Diana said, handing him a snifter. "You know you're welcome to stay for a while."

"If you keep asking to sleep with me, I may have to take you up on it." When they'd first met last summer, Neal had asked for Diana to be his bodyguard when Henry and Angela had been kidnapped. She'd been diligent in her duties to protect him, crashing on the couch in his loft for a quick nap when given the chance. It'd become a private joke ever since.

"Travis told me about the primitive accommodations you're having to put up with. I'm feeling generous. Do you mind if I change into a robe?"

"Not at all."

"They supplied me with an extra one. You want one too?"

Neal grinned. "Sure."

A few minutes later they were lazing on the couch in front of the fire in their robes, sipping cognac.

She glanced over at him. "Would you like me to intervene at the ice rink tomorrow?"

"Thanks for the offer but I'm hoping to get an invitation to their suite. Besides, I don't want to hurt Mandy's feelings any more than necessary. When she wasn't attacking me, we had a great time on the rink. She and her mom are often at odds but my sense is that they have a close bond. That may be wishful thinking though. Her feelings for her dad . . ." Neal shook his head and let his words die off. No point in going there.

For once Diana didn't tease him. "You like her, don't you?"

He nodded. "She was hoping I'd be her first, make her a woman. She's going to grow up all right, but not in the way she had in mind."

"Reality can suck sometimes," Diana said in her usual diplomatic way. "Events happen and make you grow up overnight."

Neal looked over at her. "You sound like you speak from experience."

She stretched out her legs in front of her as she gazed into the fire and was silent for a moment. "I lost my mom when I was ten. Breast cancer."

"I'm sorry, Diana." Neal gazed over at her with sympathy. No child should have to face what she was forced to.

"Yeah. I grew up fast. Dad was a diplomat. He started taking me everywhere with him." She glanced over at him and gave a short laugh. "If you think I'm impatient now, you should have seen me back then. Finally in desperation, he shunted me off to Charlie, his bodyguard. Charlie wound up raising me. He's why I'm so good with guns." Her smile grew wistful as she returned to staring into the fire.

"What happened?" he asked after a few moments.

"Charlie was killed in the line of duty. Protecting me."

"How old were you at the time?"

"Sixteen."

"That can lay a guilt trip on anybody, but for a sixteen-year-old. . . ."

"Tell me about it. Guess we all have our burdens to deal with. Mandy will be fine. She'll be hurt, but she'll emerge stronger. She'll grow closer to her mom. She'll learn that blind hero worship doesn't always work out."

 _Just like it didn't for me_ , Neal thought. It was reassuring to get Diana's take. He could use more of her hard-nosed attitude. The music had stopped. "What would you like to hear?"

"Put on _Shakin' Not Stirred_ , the album by Brian Hughes. That's one of my favorites. You can stop grinning. It's not because of James Bond, or should I say James Bonds? Have you heard 'On Moonless Nights'? "

Neal went over to the player and inserted the CD then walked over to the patio doors to look out at the dark mountain. "Our night is moonless. Very appropriate." He turned to her, "So tell me more about the story you're writing. How do I save the day?" He fetched the bottle of cognac and replenished their glasses.

Taking a sip, she said, "Sorry, but you generally don't. Peter does. Don't try those soulful eyes on me. I'm immune to them. The year is 1975. You're colleagues at Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts, which as you know Lovecraft invented. In his stories Miskatonic has as much prestige as Harvard. I'm sure Peter will appreciate that. Jones told me how much he respects Harvard types."

Neal grinned. He was sure Jones didn't tell her he was joking. "You should mention that to Peter. It'll earn you extra points. Do I have a PhD?"

"Yep. You teach linguistics. You're a typical Lovecraft hero - a dreamer who tends to faint a lot." "Wait a minute. I thought you said I had visions, not that I was a weakling."

"Just watch yourself. Remember, your destiny is in my hands now." She took a sip of cognac. "Your dreams take you places you don't want to be. Peter teaches archaeology. He's the rugged, manly type. Think Indiana Jones."

"Any chance I could be Indy?"

"Not happening. You're the one flying off into space. Peter's gonna keep you yanked to the ground." She paused. "Hey, don't look disgruntled. You may not be a rock but as a balloon, you rock it. As you know Lovecraft created the Great Old Ones, mysterious aliens from outer space who are essentially evil and exist outside of normal space-time. At certain periods in man's history they were able to interact with man and were often worshiped by cults as gods. There may be cave drawings about them. That could be fun."

"And a chance to go to Dordogne, eat truffles, and drink Bordeaux. My character, I assume, will be a gourmet and wealthy so he can travel the globe in luxury. Does he have a private plane?"

"Careful, Caffrey. I could always turn you into a teetotaler."

"You wouldn't!"

"Just behave." Diana grinned at her newfound power. They were sprawled at opposite ends of the couch. Neal pulled up her legs, put her feet on his lap and began massaging them.

"Oh, that's divine," she purred. "Where did you learn that?"

"Kate loved foot massages." Neal stroked her feet and gave her a seductive smile. "Are you crossing off teetotaler from my attributes?"

"Keep that up and you're safe." Diana sighed in contentment. "The Great Old Ones are few in number and were banished from our world. But as my stories start, Azathoth has reemerged as the chief bad guy of the Great Old Ones and is intent upon enslaving humanity. Then there's a host of other creatures and demons to create mayhem. Peter discovered an artifact on a dig in Egypt that causes you to have visions. There will be ancient texts in unknown languages for you to decipher and cults to discover, ancient ruins for you two to explore . . . I have a notebook of ideas which is growing daily."

"So you're casting me as a demon warrior? I could rock that."

"Don't get too excited," she cautioned. "The warrior role is reserved for someone else. But you'll also have your share of thrills. Traveling to other worlds is not off the table."

"Mozzie will like that. Are you including him?"

She smiled slyly. "You'll have to wait and see. I have several ideas kicking around for him. The stories will relate your adventures as you gradually uncover the shocking truth and try to stop Azathoth and his minions. In that you'll be aided by a kickass detective named Diana Briscoe, played by yours truly, expert in martial arts and firearms. You're going to need someone like her to rescue you from all the horrible and ghastly predicaments I'll be placing you in."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was well past two o'clock by the time Neal returned to his room. The lights were out and Peter appeared to be asleep. Neal got ready for bed, using his cat burglar skills to be as quiet as a ghost in the night. Fortunately Peter hadn't turned down the thermostat as low as the previous night. He may have gotten the hint from all the extra blankets Neal had piled on his bed that it wasn't a good idea. Neal stealthily slipped under the covers.

"Where have you been?"

"Playing possum, Peter?" Neal grinned in the darkness. "I didn't hear any snores. That should have clued me in you weren't asleep."

"I don't snore. And don't deflect." Peter rolled over and looked at the clock. "It's almost three o'clock! Where were you all this time?"

"With Diana."

"If it were anyone else, you'd be getting my lecture right now."

"Don't be such a dad. By the way, Diana's suite is fantastic. Fireplace, patio overlooking the mountain. We drank cognac and she told me about her stories. She's got an intriguing start. My character needs to be enhanced and yours need to be toned down."

"Is that so? I can see I'll need to establish a review procedure. If she writes as well as she acts, her stories will attract quite a following. That was some performance she put on at the bar. Mandy didn't stand a chance."

"I know what you mean. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her too."

"I think you're handling it the right way. I saw the looks you were tossing her—the helpless singer ensnared by the oversexed writer. Not your fault."

"I hope she sees it that way. I'd like to keep our friendship, just get rid of the passionate stuff. Speaking of which, I saw Lily go over to talk to you."

Peter let out a noisy exhale. "With every glance Max directed at El, it ramped up Lily's desire for me."

"Yeah, it was wild. First Max goes over to El's table to chat, then Lily retaliates by visiting you. Mandy was left by herself with her club soda making googly eyes at me. Did you talk with El afterwards?"

"Yeah, she said Max was a perfect gentleman, entertaining her and her friends with stories of trips to Las Vegas and L.A. and the parties he attended. Tossed around some names of celebrities. The jerk."

"Go to sleep, Peter. You're just cranky because you're stuck with me rather than El."

"Well, obviously."

"Just one more night. When we leave Sunday afternoon, we'll have what we need."

"Yeah, but that next night. . . ."

"The dance party? Relax. You'll be another Patrick Swayze."

* * *

 ** _Notes:_** _Neal and Diana's scene in her suite was inspired by the Season 2 episode, "Need to Know." In our AU, Diana acted as Neal's bodyguard in Caffrey Disclosure._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	15. Dance to the Music

**Chapter 15: Dance to the Music**

 **Ice Skating Rink, Lynx Mountain Resort. February 5, 2005. Saturday morning.**

By the time Neal got up in the morning, Peter had already been gone for hours. He was scheduled for another morning of ski instruction with Lily. Neal took his time dressing and ambled off for a leisurely breakfast before going to the ice rink. He and Mandy had agreed to meet on the ice at eleven. He hoped she hadn't been so frustrated by the previous evening that she'd stand him up.

Neal arrived at the rink a few minutes early. Mandy was nowhere to be seen, but he spotted another friendly face. El was making her way slowly and carefully around the ice rink. She was close to the railing so she could grab on to it when necessary. When El saw Neal, she gave him a wave and worked her way over. "May I join the famous Neal Legend?"

"Please. My date's not here yet." He met her at the rink entrance and helped her slip on her skate guards.

"My ankles are calling for a time out. I haven't fallen yet, but I've slipped so much, they're raising the white flag," she said with a laugh. "Let's go sit down."

Neal chose a bench where he could keep an eye on the resort entrance. "Are Lisa and Sylvia out skiing?"

El nodded. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the morning luxuriating in the spa. Are you waiting for Mandy?"

"Yes. I hope she's still talking to me after last night."

"I wouldn't worry. Teenage crushes are not easily extinguished."

He glanced over at her. "You sound like you had your own experiences with them. Who was your teen heart throb?"

El chuckled. "There were so many! Let's see . . . Kevin Costner stands out. I saw him in _Bull Durham_ , and oh my." She heaved a breathy sigh as she gazed dreamily toward the mountain.

"No wonder you were attracted to Peter. Whenever I look at him, I feel compelled to call him Kevin. Does Peter know?"

"He's never asked, and don't you tease him about it," El admonished him.

"Define _it_ because, you know in the normal course of our conversation, I often making joking comments about actors."

"Just don't link me and Kevin, wise guy."

"I'm glad Kevin didn't stomp on your fantasy. I don't like conning someone so young." Neal hesitated over how much he should say, but it was easier to talk about this with El than Peter. His reaction would undoubtedly be like Diana's—telling him Mandy needed to toughen up—but Neal would like to cushion her fall if he could. "What Mandy's going to have to experience reminds me of what I went through when I found out about my dad. Her situation has some similarities—turning eighteen, having a fantasy about a dad . . ."

El finished his sentence for him. "Being lied to."

Neal nodded. "Betrayal, hurt, anger, I was a mess. I hated my life and wanted to escape. Any advice on how to make it easier for her?"

El put a hand on his. "You're putting a lot of pressure on yourself, Neal. This isn't your fault, and what you went through was much tougher to deal with. Mandy's dad is a criminal but he's not a murderer, and he'll be able to continue to see her when he's in prison. Meredith wasn't the support she should have been for you. From what you and Peter have said, Lily may be a hot tamale but she and Mandy aren't that alienated."

"Do you think this will draw them closer to each other?"

"I'm sure it will. And then there's also this: as painful as it was, weren't you glad to know the truth?"

"I was. I wished I'd known earlier." El's words were helpful, but Neal was looking for pillows he could place around Mandy. He'd have to figure that out on his own. "Peter told me about your encounter with Max yesterday afternoon. He gave me a full account, in triplicate, of every glance and leer."

El chuckled as she brushed back her hair. "Peter's really too much, isn't he? When they were dishing out the worry genes, he was given an oversized dose. We've had two long phone conversations about it—both yesterday evening and when I returned to our room last night. I told him I was treating it as just another acting role like I'd have in community theater."

"He saw you in _The Hollow_ last month where you played an oversexed diva. That didn't seem to bother him."

"But in _The Hollow_ the man who played opposite me was happily married with several children. Peter wasn't worried."

"At least Peter allowed you to flirt last night. Did Max mention anything about Sunday?"

"No, but he commented he hoped to see me again."

Neal grinned at her. "True confession time. Who are you channeling?"

"Audrey Hepburn. I'm turning Max into my Cary Grant."

"I knew it!"

"My character also has a lot of your grandmother in her. I'm trying to project Irene's innocence and charm from those great movies she made in the 1950s."

"From what I could see, it's working. Max appears to be quite smitten with you. Have you thought about how you can lure him out of the suite on Sunday?"

"I could ask him to give me a ski lesson. He mentioned he's been frustrated that he hasn't had the time to ski." She hesitated then added, "It's the first time Peter's allowed my participation in a case like this, and it's meant so much to me. I know I won't be able to do it very often, but when we can share an experience like this, that's one of the best parts about being married."

"So that's the secret?"

"It is, and it's not a secret. When you want to share your life with someone, there's no better feeling."

"I envy what you have," Neal said.

"You'll have it too one day," she replied. "Maybe Fiona?"

"Recasting yourself as matchmaker?" Neal was going to tease her about how she had that in common with his grandmother too, but he spotted Mandy exiting the hotel and walking toward them. "We better wrap this up. Mandy's on her way."

El pulled out a notepad from her purse and gave it to him. "Peter will be thrilled to get your autograph. You're his favorite singer."

Neal flashed her a smile and scribbled: _Thanks for your support! XOXOXO Neal_ and handed it back to her.

El shook his hand and got up, nodding at Mandy as she left. Mandy was wearing a turquoise jacket which was partially unzipped to reveal a black camisole underneath and black stretch pants with a turquoise spiral stripe. She didn't seem upset with him. A good omen?

He gestured for her to join him on the bench. "Sorry about last night. I'd hoped to be able to spend more time with you."

Mandy sat down next to him. "Yeah, that woman really staked you out." She paused and added with a worldly shrug, "I'm not an innocent. I realize that sort of thing comes with your profession. You must have groupies at all your concerts."

Neal shrugged helplessly, muttering, "It's a curse."

"But she's so old!" Mandy made a face. "She must be nearly thirty. What's she thinking? Doesn't she know she's far too old for you to be interested in her? It's disgusting what some women do."

Diana, the older woman? She was only a couple of years older him. He could just see the fireworks if she'd heard the way Mandy talked about her. But her sacrifice was worth it as Mandy was not making a move on him.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"You skated circles around me," he accused, laughing. They were sitting in the café next to the ice rink having hot chocolate and sandwiches after an hour on the ice. The interior was decorated to resemble a rustic chalet with rough-hewn wood paneling and a large stone fireplace.

"No, I didn't. I can't believe how much you've improved in one day." Mandy was laughing also. The morning had gone surprisingly well. No X-rated scenes on the ice this time. Neal had genuinely enjoyed the skating.

"Do you have any plans this afternoon?" he asked.

Mandy tossed him a startled, happy look. "No. Would you like to skate more?"

Neal leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, and stared into her eyes. The spiders appeared to be nonthreatening at the moment. The morning had gone so well, he'd risk a tease. "I have another activity to suggest."

Mandy's face immediately lit up. "Oh, I like the sound of that. Did you change your mind?"

"Not quite. I'd like to draw you."

Mandy's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I'm studying art at school, and I'd like to draw your portrait. After all, you've been giving me free skating lessons. It's a chance for me to reciprocate."

"You sure I couldn't interest you in a different type of lesson? I already have one picked out."

Neal smiled and shook his head. "We've already gone over that. I'm not cheating on my girlfriend."

"You can simply call this a winter fling and not tell her?" she asked hopefully.

"No, I can't. I think too much of you and her both. You say you'd be happy to be my mistress, but if I were your boyfriend, you wouldn't think very much of me if I had another woman on the side, would you?"

Mandy sighed. "Probably not. But if you break up—"

"By then you'll already have your own boyfriend and could care less about me. But getting back to the portrait, are you interested?"

Mandy grinned. "Definitely! Where would you like to draw me?"

Neal pretended to mull over the question. "It should be someplace where I could include the mountain. Make it personal to your time here. Would you like that?"

Easy to tell from Mandy's expression that she would. "By the rink?"

"Sorry, but my hands would be too cold. How about in your suite? You told me what a great view you have from the balcony."

Mandy hesitated and then said, "Why not! But . . . you should know. My dad's security conscious. We travel with a couple of bodyguards, but they won't bother us. I just ignore them."

Neal wrinkled his brow. "If you don't mind my asking, why all the security?"

"Dad's paranoid, if you ask me. I give him grief about it. He told me that a business friend had been kidnapped once and held for ransom and he didn't want the same thing to happen to him. Dad's second generation Italian. I've wondered if it isn't a European thing to have bodyguards."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After lunch Mandy went upstairs to change and Neal returned to his room to pick up his artist supplies. He intended to use colored pencils on sketch paper. Back at the Bureau he and Diana had discussed using his art to gain entrance into the suite. In the beginning they'd talked about sketching Lily, but Mandy made an even better subject.

Mandy greeted him at the door to the suite, dressed in a pink angora turtleneck which she wore over stretch leather leggings. Her hair had been combed back from her face. Mercifully, she'd dialed down the eye makeup.

"Fantastic suite you have! Any chance of a tour?"

"Sure," she said. "Don't mind Rocko and Lamar. They're harmless." The two guards didn't look harmless to Neal. Heavyset with massive shoulders, they didn't need to pull out guns to appear intimidating. They were sitting at the table in the dining area, playing cards. They'd glanced up when Neal entered the room, nodded briefly, and returned to their card game.

The Rinaldis had the largest suite the resort offered. Situated on the top floor it had panoramic views of Lynx Mountain with one wall consisting of floor-to-ceiling glass panels opening out onto a large patio. The fire was lit in the fireplace. Glancing out the window, Neal noticed the brilliant blue sky of the morning had been covered with thick clouds. The clouds meant he wouldn't have to contend with glare, but he'd replace them with blue sky in his picture. Mandy had her own storm clouds gathering. No need to include them in the drawing.

The suite had three bedrooms. Mandy showed Neal hers. Afterwards Neal tried to open the adjoining door.

"Sorry. That one's locked." Mandy went to Rocko and asked him for the key and he insisted on accompanying them. Neal admired the view from the bedroom window. He would have much rather admired the view of Max's laptop, but, as he'd expected, it was not to be seen. A mouse and mouse pad on the small writing desk, however, indicated where it was usually kept. The lock to the room was the standard hotel lock. He'd have it open in two seconds.

They returned to the living room, and Neal got out his sketchpad and pencils. He moved a chair in front of the glass doors for Mandy, so he could add the mountain in the background. While he drew, Mandy maintained a steady monologue about her school, her friends, music, and fashions. She had a quirky sense of humor that Neal liked.

Mandy had put music on, and it was difficult to hear Rocko and Lamar's conversation, not that there had been much to overhear. At two o'clock Rocko left, muttering to Lamar to wish him luck.

Shortly afterward, Mandy left her chair and walked over to Neal. "Let me see what I look like." When she saw the drawing, she clasped her hand over her mouth.

"Do you like it?" Neal asked.

"It's beautiful. Do I really look like that to you?"

"You do, and when you arrive at college, you're going to have so many guys vying to date you, you'll have a tough time deciding who the lucky one will be. My advice? Make sure that guy's worthy of you."

Neal hadn't intended to go into big brother mode with her but surprisingly she didn't tease him about it. Instead she asked, "Are you going to the dance this evening?"

Neal nodded. "I'm not playing at the bar tonight."

"If I promise to behave, any chance we could dance together?"

He smiled at her. "I'd be honored."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"The drawing came out surprisingly well," Neal told Peter over an early dinner in the staff cafeteria. "Portraits are difficult. Sometimes it's best not to be too realistic, but Mandy didn't require a lot of plastic surgery."

Travis had appeared just as they were sitting down. Once he'd gotten his order, he joined them. "Their vegetarian selection's not bad," he noted with a nod to his spinach lasagna. He sat down beside Neal. "Did you hear the weather report?"

"The pros were talking about it at the ski shop," Peter said. "A massive snowstorm's heading our way. Looks like the slopes will all be closed tomorrow. Conditions will be too dangerous."

"The resort's already made contingency plans," Neal said. "I picked up the schedule in the lobby on my way back from the Rinaldis' suite. They have a series of indoor ski clinics scheduled in the barn."

"I was given a tour of the barn on Thursday," Peter said. "There are even two-foot ski jumps where beginners can practice landing in foam pits."

"They've also scheduled dance classes in the afternoon. A little late for tonight's event but it gives the guests something to do. Do you know if Lily's going to the dance, Peter?"

"Unfortunately, yes. She asked me if I'd be there."

"Has she made any moves on you yet?"

"I wouldn't say that, but she's becoming very friendly. Her equipment always seems to need adjusting." Neal couldn't resist a snicker, while Travis grinned. Peter glared at them. "You two have dirty minds. Not that kind of adjustment."

"Are you sure?" Neal asked. "In my experience one kind often leads to the other."

"Maybe you're right. First it was her ski boot buckles. She thought one had come loose. Then it was the bindings. Next she thought she'd ripped her front zipper."

Neal laughed. "Oh yeah, she's hitting on you."

Peter groaned. "You see, this is why I'm so bad at flirting. I miss all the signals."

"Jones asked me to pass on that he and Rocko have scheduled another game of foosball tomorrow at two o'clock," Travis said. "That takes care of one of the players. How are you going to arrange for the others to be gone?"

Neal turned to face Travis, hoping he wouldn't panic at his idea. "For Mandy, I'm going to need your help." _Damn. He was already nervous._ "Just think of Mandy as one those green aliens from Star Trek—what were they called? Orion slave girls?"

Travis looked even more flustered. "I prefer the term Orion animal women, and that's not helpful at all."

Neal persisted. "Look, it's for the team. We all have assignments we despise. For me it's the van. For you it's dancing with an Orion animal woman. I'm going to ask Mandy to join me at the dance clinic. That's scheduled to start at one. I need an excuse to leave at 1:50 so I'll be ready when Rocko leaves. You're going to provide it by cutting in. A handsome Vulcan like you will have no problem with Mandy." Neal looked pleading at Peter, "Help me out on this."

"Neal's right. We're all having to cowboy up. That includes you too. No hiding with the electronics."

Travis let out a groan that sounded like a walrus in its death throes. "How long will I need to keep this up?"

"Probably only a half-hour. You told me copying the data files from the hard drive should take about fifteen minutes. If we can manage to clear the suite for that length of time, I should be able to make quick work of it and then come down to cut back in. Peter, I assume you and Lily will be at the ski clinic?"

Diana had walked in and brought her tray over to join them. "Max just headed upstairs. Jones is monitoring the lobby now. What did I miss?"

"Travis is going to dance with an Orion animal woman tomorrow," Neal said.

"Oh, really?" She turned to Travis. "You need any help with dance moves?"

"I thought I'd just stand there and look awkward and she'd take pity on me," he replied. "I think I could handle that."

"Didn't Spock dance once?" Peter asked. "I believe it was in that episode where they wore Greek togas."

"You're thinking of 'Plato's Stepchildren' where Spock was forced to dance a flamenco around Kirk's head," Travis said. "I'm not going to have to dance the flamenco, am I, Neal?"

"Of course, not," Neal said. "You can pretend to be as clumsy as you like. That might actually work out better. Mandy will take it upon herself to be your coach."

"Travis is not the only one whose assignment needs to be modified," Peter said. "We have to come up with a better solution for the Rinaldi suite. As it stands now Neal will be there by himself and that's unacceptable. He can't access the computer, which will most likely be in the bedroom, and at the same time keep watch at the front door for an unexpected arrival at the suite."

"I agree it's not ideal," Neal said. He could tell Peter was pleasantly surprised to hear him acquiesce. He probably wouldn't be so pleased at his counterproposal. "Jones will be keeping Rocko busy at the foosball table. Travis will be dancing with the Orion animal woman. So I'm glad to hear you're offering to keep Lily occupied in the suite and provide me with backup at the same time. It's a bold move, and Peter, I must say, I'm impressed."

"Wait a minute," Peter protested. "That's off the table. Diana could go with you."

"Did you forget, boss? I'll be in the van. Jones and Travis have been working with the recordings you've made of Lily's voice. That woman is such a talker, they had hours of dialogue to work with. Jones told me the splice job is coming together well."

"That's right," Travis confirmed. "We've been able to piece together Lily reporting that she slipped and fell. When Lamar gets her call, he'll have to leave his post to come to her assistance. Diana needed to record a few words which we were able to blend in. She's an excellent mimic."

"We're having her tell Lamar she fell on a walkway outside Building Three," Diana added. "It's the most remote location from the Rinaldi suite and should take him at least fifteen minutes to arrive, and another ten before he realizes she's not to be found. I even have transcripts to use when he calls her back asking where she is."

"Will you have any trouble calling in from what appears to be her cell phone?" Neal asked.

"No, that will be easy to hack," Travis said. "Peter simply needs to make sure Lily doesn't try to use her cell herself. I was planning to handle the equipment for Diana, but since Neal insists I need to keep the Orion animal woman occupied, Diana, you're going to have to take care of it yourself."

"Shouldn't be a problem, " she said between bites. "We'll go over the equipment in the morning and you'll still have time to practice your dance moves."

"So, Peter, getting back to your question," Neal said, "if you want me to have backup, then you're going to have to provide it."

"But how am I going to get her to invite me up to her suite?" Peter asked, looked desperate.

Diana rolled her eyes at him. "After all of El's lessons, you need to ask? Don't let El down, Peter."

"Lily's coming to the dance tonight—that will provide the perfect opportunity," Neal suggested, ever the helpful team member. "As you perform a hot tango on the dance floor, you can whisper in her ear—"

"That's enough, Caffrey. I'll think of something."

 **Lynx Mountain Resort. February 5, 2005. Saturday afternoon.**

"So you're sure you're okay with this?"

El's voice on the phone was laced with overtones of exasperation. "For the last time, Peter, and to quote your consultant, I'll be fine."

"And that makes me as reassured as when Neal uses that line on me." There was nothing El could say that would make Peter feel good about involving her in an op. There were too many unknowns. He'd seen too many so-called foolproof missions fall apart from unforeseen circumstances. But he'd have to admit El was by far the best choice to keep Max out of play. If she could convince him to meet her at a ski clinic in the barn, he'd be out of action for two hours which would give the rest of them a comfortable margin to work with. Snow had begun to fall in the late afternoon, and the forecast was for continual snow throughout the day tomorrow. That meant the barn would be packed with frustrated skiers taking advantage of the clinics. What could go wrong?

Neal emerged from the bathroom, drying his hair. He'd been taking a shower during the call. He looked questioningly at Peter. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Peter grumbled. "Not happy, but resigned." He'd already showered and dressed. The hotel had requested instructors to show up early to be on hand to greet the resort guests. Peter picked up the handout the resort had passed around and studied it while Neal dressed. "It says here we're expected to invite several different guests to dance and not lavish our attention on only one."

"Relax, Peter. No one's going to call you out if you spend all your time with Lily."

"Are we allowed to make song requests?"

"I suppose. What do you have in mind?"

"How about 'Love and Marriage?' Do you know of any other songs that extol faithfulness?"

Neal grinned as he buttoned his shirt. "You gotta get into your role, Peter. Think of yourself as an actor. Hmm. What would be a good choice? Maybe Kevin Costner in _Dances with Wolves_. Think of Lily as a wolf and you're taming her with your dancing."

"That's not helpful, you know. I suppose I should be grateful you didn't tell me to act like a Wookiee, although this is one time I wouldn't mind going as one." Peter looked at his reflection in the mirror. Neal had helped him select the shirt and the dark blue color did suit his eyes, he guessed. He struck a pose and practiced his come-hither looks. "Hey, stop with the guffaws, you're ruining my concentration." He turned around to glare at Neal who was laughing so hard he was forced to wipe his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'll try." Neal stifled his snorts and said, "Here, allow me to demonstrate." He approached the mirror, instantly transforming his face into a cool, sophisticated mask. Fixing his gaze on the lamp on the dresser, his half-closed eyes swept it up and down. Damn, the kid was good. He gracefully extended his arm and snaked it around the lamp, drawing it close, as he invited it to dance. Stepping back, he gestured toward Peter. "Okay, Lamoureaux. She's all yours."

Peter stared at him. "Are you out of your mind?"

Neal was relentless. "If you can flirt with a lamp, you won't have any problem with Lily."

Neal was right. After trying it a few times, Peter was getting into his role. It was all an act. He wasn't a bad actor, after all. Neal was teaching him little tricks to use with his eyes and smile that he wanted to try out on El later on when the op was over. Man, was that a happy thought.

Thirty minutes later, hair combed, shoes polished, Lamoureaux and Caffrey headed for the dance floor, ready to show the women of the Lynx Mountain Ski Resort a good time.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The dance was scheduled to start at eight. The snow was falling heavily by now, but nobody was paying any attention to the weather. When the doors to the dance hall opened, spotlights cast beams of different colors on the floor, transforming it to a scintillating kaleidoscope. "Amazing" by George Michael was booming out of the speakers. Neal started swaying to the music and nudged Peter to start grooving too. Guests poured in and quickly filled the dance floor. Mandy was one of the first to arrive. She was in a metallic neon-pink dance dress, her long hair pulled up off her face and cascading down her back. She looked like a sex kitten. Peter looked over at her, and raised a brow at Neal. "You're sure you convinced her to cool it?"

Neal shrugged. "I'll soon find out."

Lily had walked in behind her daughter. Peter swallowed when he looked at Lily's daringly low cut firecracker-orange dress and cleared his throat. Neal leaned over to him and murmured, "Cowboy up, Lamoureaux."

Peter flashed her a smile which if not genuine was sufficiently broad to pass muster while muttering in a low growl, "Couldn't resist, huh?"

"Been waiting for the perfect moment." Neal strolled forward to greet Mandy.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was now thirty minutes into the dance. Neal had been dancing as promised with Mandy the entire time. Fortunately most of the songs had been fast ones with little time for groping. El and her friends had arrived a little after the Rinaldis. El was wearing a tight royal blue dress that had steam coming out of Peter's ears. Her friends apparently had made friends with some of the ski pros and were dancing with them. When El arrived, Neal saw Max whisper something in Lily's ear and he made a beeline for El. They spent a few moments in conversation before dancing. Neal saw Lily look over at Max and El several times. She didn't appear to be too upset. Did she and Max have an open marriage? Next time Neal spotted her, she was dancing with Peter.

Neal held Mandy close as "Wonderful" by Annie Lennox played over the speakers. Did he have that look of dopey infatuation when he first met Kate? Surely not. A warning bell went off in his head that she was getting too close for comfort. Pushing her away slightly, he murmured in her ear, "Do you know who your mom's dancing with?"

Mandy scanned the dance floor. "Oh, he's a ski instructor. I forget his name. Lamaretto or something like that. Mom's been taking lessons from him the past couple of days. She says he's very nice. Doesn't come on to her." Mandy grinned. "I think she's disappointed about that."

"Won't your dad be upset?" Neal steered her to a slightly less congested part of the dance floor where it was easier to talk.

Mandy shook her head. "Mom and Dad lead independent lives. Dad's gone a lot." She shrugged. "Men have needs. Women too." Neal was startled to hear her be so open about it. "Fidelity's not a big word around my place."

"Maybe not, but your parents both care very deeply for you. Hold on to that."

Mandy smiled up at him just as the power went off and the room was plunged into darkness. A few screams could be heard, but seconds later the power came back on. The DJ announced over the loud speakers that the storm had caused a power interruption, but the resort had backup generators and guests should not to be concerned if there was another blip.

"Guess we won't be skating tomorrow," Mandy said, looked forlorn. "I heard on the forecast it will be snowing heavily all day tomorrow."

"We'll just to have come up with an inside activity," Neal said and added with mock severity to Mandy's wide-eyed enthusiasm, "Not that activity. I noticed on the schedule that there's going to be a dance clinic tomorrow afternoon. One of the locals is a professional dancer and going to teach Latin dances to the group. You interested?"

That was a no-brainer. Mandy was so excited, she hugged him. Fortunately lip sucking was off the table. They'd just made plans to meet at one o'clock when Diana approached and cut in. To the music of "Toxic," she pressed close to him and whispered, "Talked with El. She's already arranged to have Max meet her in the barn."

Neal put an arm around Diana and spun her around. "Any word from our reluctant Romeo?"

Diana pushed him back then pulled him in again. "He's gone to the head of the class. Asked Lily to meet him at the indoor Jacuzzi. He plans to make an excuse, and leave her steaming in the hot tub."

Neal grinned. "Mandy's coming to the dance clinic tomorrow. Everything's falling into place."

"Except the weather. They're predicting more frequent power outages. I can't get a signal on my cell phone. We may have to improvise our distraction with the other guard." Diana glanced over at Mandy who was standing on the sidelines, looking disconsolate. "You two behaving?"

Neal nodded. "Time to give her some more happy memories." He led Diana close to the DJ's station as they danced. Neal stopped and asked the DJ to play a special request.

"Did anyone call you a romantic, Caffrey?" Diana said, rolling her eyes.

"She's got a lot of rough times ahead once her dad's exposed. I want her to have a little happiness now."

When the dance ended, Diana strolled off and Neal walked back to Mandy. "This song's for us." He led her to the center of the dance floor as the DJ started playing "Time of My Life."

"I must be in heaven!" Mandy exclaimed, her face lighting up brighter than the spotlights overhead.

As they danced, couples moved aside for them to have more space. Mandy was a superb dancer and inspired Neal to strut his stuff. Channeling his inner Patrick Swayze, he and Mandy danced a number that brought cheers from the crowd. He spotted Max Rinaldi beaming at them. Damn. It made him feel worse for how he was going to have to disrupt that family. _Not his fault_ , he insisted. Still an inner voice nagged him about it. It was hard not to hurt people no matter what he did.

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: You can find the dance music mentioned, Lily and Mandy's dance outfits, and other visuals on The Dreamer board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. Thanks to Penna Nomen for suggesting Kevin Costner for El's teenage crush and having Peter dance, not with wolves, but with Lily, the lone wolf._

 _There won't be any dancing next week in Chapter 16: Toxic but there may be fireworks ahead. The team has prepared all they can, but as usual, events don't turn out like they expected. Bundle up when you read next week's chapter—it's going to be cold outside!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	16. Toxic

**Chapter 16: Toxic**

 **Lynx Mountain Resort. February 6, 2005. Sunday.**

On Sunday morning, Diana, Jones, and Travis met Neal and Peter in the staff cafeteria for a final review over breakfast. The blizzard had slackened off, and Neal hoped they'd experienced their last power outage. Several times during the night they'd lost power. For once he was glad they didn't have windows in their room. The howling of the gale force winds was muffled to a low roar in the basement. "Do you have connectivity yet?" he asked Diana. "I still can't get a signal on my cell."

"Me neither," she replied.

"The transmission towers were all knocked out by the blizzard," Travis said. "I haven't been able to find out how much damage they suffered, but I suspect it will be Monday at the earliest before coverage resumes."

"The storm was much stronger than anyone had predicted," Peter noted, "but as long as the power holds, we should be able to proceed with our plans."

Diana nodded in agreement. "I can call on the hotel phone. I'll tell the guard I happened upon Lily and she requested I call him. That should work just as well."

"Foosball won't be affected," Jones said. "Rocko is meeting me at 2:00 for our game."

You're going to be at the dance clinic at 1:30, right?" Neal asked Travis. "I'll leave the clinic at 1:45 and head for Diana's suite to wait for the guards to leave."

Travis nodded resignedly. He appeared to have come to terms with dancing with Mandy, the Orion animal woman. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small USB drive, and handed it to Neal. "Once you plug the drive into Rinaldi's laptop, the program will decrypt his password and proceed to copy his data files. Copying the files should take no longer than fifteen minutes." He pointed to a row of tiny LED lights on the drive. "When all the lights are green, you can safely remove the drive."

"I told Lily that I'd meet her at 2:00," Peter said. "Because of the storm there should be a lot of people using the spa and Jacuzzi. It will take her a while to realize I'm not there. We'll be done upstairs before she gives up on me."

"Once I've called Lamar, I could go down to the spa and keep her occupied," Diana offered.

"Good. That will give us a safety margin in case we run into any problem with copying the files. Max is meeting El at the ski clinic at 1:00. I talked with the instructor. His lesson will run for two hours with only short breaks so we have ample coverage there." Peter looked around at the team. "Once the files are copied, there will be no need to stick around. Jones, you're in charge of logistics. Will we have any problem with the roads?"

"I talked with the resort personnel. They plan to begin plowing the main road this morning and believe that this afternoon it will be usable for vehicles with tire chains. They warned me, though, that the wind is supposed to pick up again in the afternoon, and conditions will still be treacherous."

"El and her friends were originally planning to leave tomorrow," Peter said. "I'm going to try to persuade her into extending her stay one more night to give more time for the roads to clear."

 **Bryan McKenzie's townhouse. London. February 6, 2005. Sunday morning.**

When Sara awoke on Sunday morning, Bryan was still asleep. She rolled over to look at the clock. Only 8:00—still early. The bed was bathed in pale gray light coming in through the half-open window shutters. She took a moment to study Bryan's face slumbering on the pillow. It was rare she saw him so peaceful. Was this the face of the man she loved?

The silk sheets rustled softly as she slipped out of the bed. After the warmth of the bed, his flat seemed frigid. She reached for her kimono lying on the chair and wished it were something warmer than silk. Sara padded quietly into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker, closing the bedroom door behind her so the sound wouldn't disturb Bryan. He'd only arrived back yesterday afternoon from Tokyo and would probably continue to sleep for hours. Once the coffee was ready, Sara poured a cup and took it with her to the living room. She walked over to the windows. Bryan's flat overlooked the Thames but the view this morning was bleak and dreary. A light rain was falling. The raindrops formed small rivulets as they trickled down the glass.

Sara pulled out a cashmere throw from a chest and took it over to the couch along with her coffee. She folded her legs underneath her and covered her lap with the throw. As she sipped her coffee, her eyes flitted over the room. Large contemporary oil paintings in bold colors were juxtaposed with steel-framed Italian contemporary furniture in white and black. The flat looked like Bryan—modern, masculine, and confident. No wishy-washy pastels for him. Everything was contemporary except for a large mirror in an Empire gold frame over the fireplace mantle. It reminded her of Napoleon. She'd told Bryan that, and he admitted that was one reason he chose it. He liked to think he was a man of destiny like Napoleon.

He certainly seemed to be. That he could afford to live in such a luxurious flat was indicative, he said, of what she could look forward to with Sterling-Bosch. The commissions she'd make off recovered property would enable her to live a similarly extravagant lifestyle.

Sara's thoughts wandered back to the previous evening. Bryan had been gone for several days—first to the continent and then Japan—and she hadn't been surprised when he'd invited her out, but she hadn't expected he'd pull out all the stops. They'd had an early supper at one of London's most exclusive French restaurants and then attended a performance by the Royal Ballet. Afterward, over drinks in Piccadilly, it happened—what she'd been dreading for the past month. He proposed.

Sara reached for the Cartier's jewel box which was still on the end table where she'd left it last night. Bryan had bought the ring when he was in Paris the previous week. The box was still open and the diamond appeared to be on fire. It sparkled with a flame that Bryan said was a tenth of the flame he had burning in his heart for her.

So why wasn't she on fire too? Instead her head was pounding from a headache that she hadn't been able to shake even in sleep. She'd hoped the caffeine would help but the coffee was just making her feel queasy.

This is what she'd been hoping for, wasn't it? Bryan represented stability and strength. He adored her—that was clear. His commitment seemed absolute and unwavering. Theirs would be a life of international travel filled with adventure. That was exactly what she'd dreamed of.

Sara let out a long exhale and looked gloomily into her cup. Maybe tea? She got up and headed back into the kitchen. She poured out the coffee and placed a mug of water into the microwave. What was wrong with her? She was usually so decisive. Now she couldn't even figure out what she wanted to drink.

She could tell he was hurt when she'd asked for some time to think over his proposal. Plainly he'd expected another response. But she couldn't deny that over the past month her feelings toward him were becoming ambivalent just as his were heating up. Ever since that New Year's in Paris, her emotions had become muddled. When the fireworks exploded around the Eiffel Tower, they set off a chain reaction in her. Was Bryan so attractive because of the life he led or was she truly in love with the man? No doubt he was handsome and suave. And he could be surprisingly considerate. And his body… Sara paused and shook her head before taking out the mug from the microwave. He could give lessons on the art of seduction.

She returned to the couch with her tea, and wrapped herself back up in the throw. She scolded herself to get a grip. Many women waited before accepting a proposal. Clearly the way she was stressing showed that she wasn't ready to make a decision. It wouldn't be fair to Bryan.

The door to the bedroom opened and Bryan strolled out. He smiled at her on the couch. "You're wrapped in a cocoon. You do know I have heat and you're allowed to turn the thermostat up?" He went over to the thermostat and adjusted it. Returning to her, he glanced over at the ring on the end table and sat down next to her. "Put that ring on and my love will keep you warm."

"About that . . ." Sara's voice sounded disgustingly weak to her ears. "You promised last night to give me as much time as I needed."

He made an impatient gesture. "I know, but you can't blame a guy for giving a little helpful nudge. This is where you belong, Sara. We're meant for each other."

Sara didn't answer and he went into the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. When he returned, he appeared to understand she didn't want to talk about it. Perhaps it was because she'd closed the lid on the box. Bryan was disconcertingly adept at reading her, and the signals she was sending were clear.

The atmosphere became less tense as they chatted about work. Here Sara was on much more comfortable ground and quickly regained her poise. Last night they'd promised each other to take a day off from work, but both of them were passionate over their jobs. Bryan's drive and business acumen she found very attractive.

"How's the Corot case progressing?" he asked. He'd been dismissive of the case when they'd talked earlier, considering it an insignificant mistake. No one had lost any money over the transaction. A slight embarrassment to Sterling-Bosch but easily excused. Given the number of Corot forgeries, an occasional mistake was inevitable.

"Weatherby's has plans to reevaluate their authentication procedures. They've asked for me to be part of the panel and also become their rep with Sterling-Bosch."

Bryan eyed her thoughtfully. "Impressive, but I can't say I like that you'll be spending more time in New York. I'd intended to include you in more of my cases." He gave her a quick smile. "But it's a good career move for you. I'll simply have to start accepting more New York cases myself. Your connections with the FBI could prove useful."

Sara nodded. "I have my prior work at Winston-Winslow to thank for that. It was through the connections I made there that I first met Peter Burke."

"Caffrey's cousin is working again with Win-Win, isn't he?"

"That's right. I heard he's on the facial recognition software team."

"From what you've told me he's on the fast track to become CEO. Not shabby at all." Bryan got up and walked over to look out the windows, his expression inscrutable. Sara sipped her tea and paid him little heed. Mentioning Win-Win brought back unbidden memories of that July 4th caper when she and Neal had visited Henry's office at Win-Win. That seemed a lifetime ago.

Bryan broke through her reflections when he returned to sit down next to her. "There's something I should mention since you're going to be working in New York more. I've known for a while, but I hadn't brought it up because it really wasn't my business." He paused as if to gather his thoughts.

Bryan had an unusually serious expression on his face, and it was surprising to see him hesitate. He was always so confident. This wasn't like him.

"You have the right, obviously, to be friends with whomever you wish. But, you need to remember that I'm in love with you. I don't want to see you get hurt."

"What are you talking about? You're making me nervous."

"This may not be a pleasant topic, but for your own sake, you need to know. You'd be well advised to be very circumspect around Neal Caffrey."

"Neal?" she blurted out in astonishment.

"He's not to be trusted." Bryan took her hand in his. "He could destroy your career and ruin your reputation if you're not careful."

She shook off his hand, her confusion turning into anger. "Now you're being ridiculous. Are you jealous of Neal? You've no reason to be. I've already explained we're just friends." She'd worried about Bryan being too controlling. Here was another example of it.

Bryan waved away her protests impatiently. "I know that. I'm saying this out of concern for you, not because I feel threatened by him." He paused and took a sip of coffee before proceeding. "Has he ever talked to you about his activities before he joined the FBI?"

"Sure," Sara replied automatically.

"Think about it. What specifically did he say?"

Where was Bryan going with his questions? "He lived in Europe when he was young. I remember him mentioning his mom. I've met some of his relatives. I know his cousin, his aunt . . ."

"Anything else?"

"What else should I know?"

Bryan exhaled. "The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Believe me, this is for your own protection or I wouldn't mention it. When I first met Caffrey, his name sounded familiar but I couldn't place it. Then, when we were in New York last December, I met with the head of Regnier's Jewelers to review their security measures."

"I remember." Sterling-Bosch provided the insurance for Regnier's. A couple of months ago a pair of diamond earrings once owned by Marie Antoinette and now property of the Smithsonian had been stolen in transit to Regnier's for their _Queen's Jewels_ exhibit. Regnier's wouldn't have been liable, but it had also been rumored that thieves were eyeing a diamond ring which was included in the exhibit.

"When I spoke with the owner, he shared details with me about the robbery that were troubling. You know that the earrings were stolen from the FBI vault?"

"Yes, I was with you for the initial discussion. I thought it was shocking, but since they were recovered, I didn't pursue it."

"In a later discussion, I found out that the chief suspect in the case was Caffrey."

"Are you sure about that?"

"There's no question. I dug deeper and through a contact learned he'd been placed on suspension with a tracking monitor anklet to prevent escape. Although he was later cleared, it was obvious the FBI believed him to be capable of committing the crime."

Sara's head reeled. "That appears draconian when they hadn't arrested him. Why would they have gone to such lengths?"

He paused and gave her an odd look. "Don't blow up at me, but I investigated him."

Sara stared at him, dumbfounded. "You didn't."

He flushed. "I knew Caffrey was trouble, but he's so charming I didn't think you'd believe me unless I had proof so I went looking and I found it. Before he started working with the FBI, Caffrey was suspected of a long list of forgeries, thefts, burglaries and frauds. He was never charged but is well known to Interpol as well as the FBI. Many of his suspected crimes were in Europe."

Sara was stunned. Could this be the same person she thought she knew?

Bryan was looking at her with compassion. "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but this is the truth. Caffrey made a confession to the FBI to acquire immunity from prosecution. He probably only confessed to a small fraction of his crimes. My source said that Burke was taken in by him. And now that Caffrey's aunt is married to Burke's brother, it's no wonder he's lost his objectivity. Caffrey has the reputation of being an expert con artist. He fooled them all. My suspicion is he's running a long con and gaining inside knowledge of the FBI in order to pull off a spectacular heist in the future."

How could she have been so wrong about Neal? Sara thought back to the discussions she'd had with him. She hadn't paid much attention at the time, but it was curious he avoided talking about his life before the FBI. They saw each other often in the summer when they were volunteering at a shelter, but she couldn't recall him ever talking about his childhood. They were working with teens, and it would have been the natural thing to throw in at least a few references to his high school years. But she knew that Henry and his mother Noelle—even the former CEO of Win-Win and his wife—all apparently liked him and cared about him. How could this be reconciled? Was Neal lacking a moral compass? A charming but essentially flawed misfit with no sense of right and wrong?

Bryan broke into her musings. "I suspect Caffrey's taking advantage of his new situation to commit even more brazen crimes." He paused and considered for a moment before going on. "He's suspected of having been involved with the theft of the Raphael painting, _St. George and the Dragon_ , in Washington, D.C. last summer. He was in town and seen at the museum around the time of the robbery. He needs to be investigated, but I believe Burke is protecting him from prosecution. Eventually it will come out. Burke may be blind to the evidence, but others aren't."

Last summer seemed a lifetime ago. Neal had been investigating Henry's disappearance. She'd helped him sneak into Henry's office in Baltimore over the Fourth of July. They'd had a picnic . . . He'd said something about Raphael, teasing her about stealing a Raphael to pay for Columbia. Had he actually done it? Columbia was terribly expensive. That Raphael drawing at his work space at the FBI . . . Would he have been so reckless to display a drawing if he'd stolen the Raphael? Neal was cocky, but he wouldn't have gone that far.

Bryan was talking to her. Sara forced herself to listen.

"I said, the Corot," Bryan repeated patiently. "Has the FBI any leads on who painted the forgery?"

Sara shook her head. "No, but there may be a connection to someone named Max Rinaldi, a real estate developer. Have you heard of him?"

"Rinaldi … no, I don't think so, but I'll look him up in my records."

Bryan continued to talk about work, and she let his words flow over her, not paying any attention to them. She felt numb. She had no appetite for the breakfast he fixed for them. He wanted to take her shopping, but she begged off, claiming a sick headache which was certainly true. He didn't insist but was concerned and considerate. He appeared to sense she needed time alone.

After getting dressed, Sara returned to her tiny studio flat in Cambridge Heath. It had been provided by Sterling-Bosch and had come furnished. It was almost as anonymous as a motel room. She hoped its very neutrality would provide solidity to a world that had become quicksand under her feet. During her first months in London, Bryan's flat had been a welcome vision of her future life in the clouds. In comparison, her flat was dull and depressing. Instead of a view of the Thames, she had a view of a brick building identical to hers. But now, humble as it was, it provided a haven.

Sara made herself another cup of tea. Her headache simply wasn't going away. She changed out of her silk dress and put on a set of flannel pajamas that a friend had given her as a gag gift when she heard she was moving to London. Turquoise with large pink flowers, she'd thought at the time they looked like old-fashioned chintz. The pants were a little long, but the flannel was soft and warm.

She glanced at her watch. It was still early in New York. Not that there was anyone to call. Unbidden, the image of Neal sitting across from her at the tapas restaurant crept into her head and wouldn't leave. How could the Neal she knew as her friend be the same person Bryan was describing? Had it all been a lie? One long con like he said?

And so what if it were? It wasn't like they were that close. Just friends. She should be excited at the possibility of helping to catch the thief who stole the Raphael, not saddened that she might have to investigate a friend.

Sara glanced around the room, her eyes resting on Gypsy. The plush giraffe was perched on top of the couch— about the only personal touch she'd added to the furnishings. Gypsy had belonged to Emily and was one of the few reminders Sara had of her missing sister. She remembered her sister giving Gypsy to her shortly before she left. Always before, she had simply called it _Giraffe_ , but when she gave it to her, she said it needed a name and _Gypsy_ was perfect. Sara later realized that Emily must have been trying to warn her that she was going to run away.

Sara brought her tea over to the couch and plopped next to Gypsy. She'd never missed her sister more than right now. She could have talked with her about it. Emily would have known what to do. With a sigh, Sara put Gypsy on her lap. "Why don't I simply go ahead and accept Bryan's proposal? I can have my life in the clouds and move in with him. Bryan won't abandon me. He tells me the truth even when I don't want to hear it."

"Damn, damn, damn." This wasn't like her. She prided herself on her self-confidence. She knew what she wanted and went after it. And now she had it in front of her and she was considering turning it down? But she'd been wrong about Neal. Was she now wrong about Bryan too?

Sara sat and sipped her tea. If Gypsy had any advice, she was keeping it to herself.

Giving a huff, she headed for the hall closet and pulled out her cello. She'd confided in Neal that playing it made her feel closer to Emily and never had she needed her sister more. She'd surprised herself when she told him—she couldn't remember having mentioned it to anyone else. After all, it was a little embarrassing. But Neal hadn't laughed at her and seemed to understand. At least that's what she'd thought.

She took the cello out of its case—God, how long had it been since she'd played it? She plucked the strings to test the tuning. As bad as she feared. That at least she could fix. Sara rummaged in a drawer for her tuner and got to work. Tuning the cello gave her the most satisfaction she'd had all morning.

When she'd first picked up the cello after Emily ran away, she'd still been missing her sister so much, her mom had suggested she play "For Emily Whenever I May Find Her" by Simon and Garfunkel. The song was almost unbearably sad, but it had provided a catharsis for what she was feeling. That was the song she played now. She actually got halfway through before she had to stop. She wasn't about to ruin the finish on the cello by crying on it.

Sara retreated to the stiff, uncomfortable couch and, tucking her legs underneath her, hugged Gypsy. She prided herself on never giving into tears. Another delusion swept away.

 **Ski Barn, Lynx Mountain Resort. February 6, 2005. Sunday afternoon.**

Shortly before one o'clock El entered the ski barn which was already packed with skiers, frustrated that they couldn't be on the slopes. It was the most high tech barn El had ever seen. The immense space was partitioned into several sections of artificial slopes with varying degrees of difficulty and specialized equipment. Most of the individual training stations were already occupied. Clumps of skiers were gathered around their instructors.

"Hi, gorgeous." Max Rinaldi was waiting near the entrance to the ski barn and walked up to her with a broad smile on his face when she entered. El recognized his parka from the ski boutique at the resort. Did he go shopping just for her?

She greeted him enthusiastically. "I hope I don't bore you. As I explained, I'm an absolute beginner. I've never even put on ski boots."

"Stick with me, sweetheart, and you'll be skiing with the pros in no time." Max put an arm around her and guided her to the ski equipment. Good thing Peter wasn't around. El could just imagine his reaction. She smiled winningly at Max, as he helped her pick out rental boots. Elizabeth Burke, woman of intrigue and danger, had cast herself as an Audrey Hepburn ingénue with the steel fiber of Angelina Jolie. She hoped this would be the first of many starring roles.

 **Top Floor, Lynx Mountain Resort**

Peter performed a mental check and nodded with satisfaction. This was the way a well-planned op was supposed to run. Everyone was in position and all assignments were running smoothly. They'd adjusted with ease to the lack of cell phones. Soon Neal would copy the hard drive and they'd have the evidence they needed to put Max Rinaldi away.

Peter had remained outside the spa area until he caught sight of Lily entering the premises at which time he ducked out to join Neal in Diana's suite. From there it would be a short walk to the Rinaldi suite. The door had been left ajar so they could spot the guard when he left the suite.

Neal told him that Rocko had left five minutes before Peter arrived. At 2:01 p.m. Lamar, clad in a heavy jacket, headed for the elevator. They estimated it would take him at least twenty minutes before he realized Diana's call was bogus and then another ten minutes to return to the suite. Travis had scouted the resort and picked the most remote location he could find that still sounded reasonable for Lily to have her supposed fall.

As soon as they heard Lamar enter the elevator, Neal and Peter moved into position outside the Rinaldi door. Peter nodded to Neal to unlock it. Peter felt like a cat burglar himself, as he watched Neal deftly open the door to the suite. Their plan was for Peter to stand just inside the entrance while Neal copied the hard drive. When they entered the suite, Neal went to the bedroom door and unlocked it. Within a minute of entering the suite, he'd started work on copying the files. They'd earlier decided to communicate only with hand signals in case Rinaldi was using bugs.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

El glanced at her watch: 2:04. The ski lesson had been going on for an hour. Peter and Neal should be in Rinaldi's suite by now. Max had been mounting a full-scale charm offensive. After they'd picked out their equipment they'd had time to chat before the instructor showed up. Max entertained her with more stories of his travels. She played up her limited travel experience, gazing in wide-eyed admiration at him as he related his adventures. Then she slipped in her master's touch about loving to dance. That had the desired effect of leading him to ask her about the ballet. She could tell he was on the verge of asking her out to a ballet performance. It made her wish Peter had an interest in ballet.

Max was easy to flirt with. He was a natural storyteller and it was no surprise that all his stories showed him off to his best advantage.

The instructor had called a short break and they were discussing going for hot chocolate when one of the ski instructors approached Max. The hotel desk was calling him on the house phone.

When he left to answer it, El pulled out her cell phone. Still no signal. She could see through the barn windows that the snow was continuing to fall. When she'd walked over, there had been only light flakes, but it had now intensified. El turned around to see if Max were still talking on the phone. Where was he? El scanned the crowd of skiers but couldn't find him anywhere. Had he decided to visit the men's room? The team hadn't gone over this. What was she supposed to do now?

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had been working for about ten minutes. Peter had been checking his watch at regular intervals. At least it still told time, but it wasn't good for much else. With cell phone coverage gone, the GPS wasn't working and they couldn't contact team members in an emergency. He consoled himself with the thought they still had recording capability. Peter had been standing guard by the front door where he would be unseen if the door opened. While he waited, he practiced his excuse for Lily. He'd say he'd been called away at the last minute to substitute for a ski instructor in the barn. Hopefully she wasn't getting tired of waiting. What if she came back to the suite to change her clothes?

Neal exited the bedroom and gave him a quick thumbs up, quieting that unsettling thought. Peter waited till Neal was next to him. With a final quick glance to verify they'd left nothing behind, Peter opened the door to leave, only to find their way blocked by Rinaldi and his guards.

"Back in the suite," Rinaldi ordered.

With three guns trained on them, their only option was to comply. Peter quickly identified themselves as FBI. "We have orders to search your premises according to—"

"Can it," Rinaldi snarled and barked orders to his guards to tie them up. His face was crimson with rage. The veins in his neck bulged out as if they'd break. The guards searched them thoroughly—shoes, pants, shirts. Peter kept waiting for the USB drive to be found, but there was no sign of it. The guards removed their cell phones, watches, two-way radio, and Peter's gun.

Rinaldi scowled when he checked their IDs. Getting in Peter's face, he said, "I knew there was something suspicious about you." He then strode over to Neal and added, "But you, I wouldn't have believed that you were capable of this. Using my daughter?" Rinaldi jerked Neal by the collar of his corduroy shirt and clenched his hand into a fist.

"Boss, we gotta get them outta here without raising suspicion," Lamar cautioned in a low voice.

Rinaldi nodded and, lowering his fist, spat in his face instead. "He dies first," he instructed Lamar roughly. Neal was breathing heavily but his face was an inscrutable mask. As Rinaldi turned around, he spun back to punch Neal hard in the stomach, making him double over. If Rocko hadn't been holding him, he would have fallen to the ground.

Rinaldi barked several quick instructions. The orders were clear. They were to take Peter and Neal up a service road and dispose of them. "Use one of the resort vans," Rinaldi said. "Lamar, you're always bragging about how you can hotwire anything. Now's your chance to prove it."

"Piece of cake," Lamar said. He left them to go into his bedroom and returned with a slim jim, which he placed in an inner pocket of his jacket.

As the guards started to take them out, Rinaldi said, "Wait, you can't leave like that. Too obvious. I have a couple of extra jackets in my closet. You can sling them over their shoulders to hide their hands. Just make sure to return them and don't get any blood on them. And be quick about it. There may be more agents around."

Lamar and Rocko quickly hustled them out of the suite and into the service elevator which they rode down to the garage. With most roads too treacherous to be driven on, the garage was deserted, and even if Peter had wanted to call out for help, with the gun jammed into his back he couldn't take the risk. Neal was in the same predicament.

Once in the garage, Lamar and Rocko began arguing. "Why should we have to go out in this blizzard?" Rocko complained. "I say, ice 'em here and be done with it."

Lamar disagreed. "We follow orders. There may be cameras in the garage. We'd risk a much greater chance of discovery. Rinaldi would have our heads."

Neal glanced over at Peter, an unspoken question in his eyes. Peter weighed the options. He could tear himself free from Rocko's grasp and hope to scramble out of the way, but he wouldn't get very far. The guns had silencers and they wouldn't hesitate to use them. He shook his head slightly.

Lamar chose one of the resort's utility vans to break into. Rocko ordered Neal and Peter to face the van and shoved them hard against the side panel. He kept his gun pointed at them while Lamar forced the side door open. Rocko and Lamar made quick work of shoving them inside and binding their ankles together.

As long as they were trussed up like turkeys going to the market, they weren't going to get very far. Peter had teased Neal about being a Houdini. Neal was going to have to use those skills if they had any chance of surviving this.

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: We've arrived at perilous times for Neal and Peter, and Sara has her own issues to deal with. Many thanks to the awesome Penna Nomen for taking time out from her holiday to help with these decidedly non-festive crises. And thanks to you for reading and your comments. I hope you'll join me next week with Chapter 17: Give It Up when Peter and Neal will need to rely on each other as they face new challenges._

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	17. Give It Up

**Chapter 17: Give It Up**

 **Ski Barn, Lynx Mountain Ski Resort. February 6, 2005. Sunday afternoon.**

"Hey, gorgeous. Sorry to keep you waiting."

Max had walked up to El during the second break in the ski lesson as if there'd been nothing strange about him being away for so long. A call had come through on the hotel phone for him after which he'd disappeared for thirty minutes. El had tried using her cell phone to call Diana, but she still had no reception. She'd been debating whether she should leave the barn to try to find one of the team members when Max finally appeared. Improvising what to do while undercover was a lot harder than glossing over muffed lines on stage.

"Just a minor mishap," he said, laughing if off. "Lily slipped on the snow. Tore her designer pants but no damage otherwise. The woman has two left feet."

What Max was relating sounded like Diana's plan, but Lily wasn't supposed to actually have an accident. Had Peter made a last-minute change? If he had, he wouldn't have been able to tell her. Or maybe Lily had actually slipped on the way to the Jacuzzi and they'd taken advantage of it? El decided her best option was to play along. "I'm glad someone found her. She could have been badly injured."

"Not her. She's too well padded. Now, what did I miss? How 'bout showing me your moves?"

The ski lesson went on till three o'clock at which time Max excused himself, saying he needed to check on his daughter. He'd been polite but somewhat distracted during the lesson. El wasn't finding it easy to follow the ski instructor's directions but Max helped. He didn't attempt to make a pass and made no mention of getting together at a future time. Too bad. El had prepared a long list of witty remarks to have on hand to deflect any overly forward action on his part and wound up not needing to use a single one of them. _You see, nothing to be concerned about, Peter_ , she thought. Max was the perfect gentleman.

When she exited the ski barn, she was greeted by a strong gust of wind which blew snow in her face, temporarily blinding her. No wonder Lily slipped. El put her head down and kept a careful watch on the path as she headed for the lobby. It was treacherous going. Even walking slowly, she slipped a couple of times and nearly fell. She exhaled in relief when she arrived safely at the main building.

Peter had said he'd leave her a message with reception. Once the evidence was secured, the team planned to return to New York. They might have already left. Her friends had intended to spend the afternoon enjoying the Jacuzzi and getting massages. El planned to join them after she changed. Her work as an undercover operative was done. She'd enjoyed it, despite being left in the dark about the audibles they'd called. She wished she could know more of the details, but she'd have to wait till Peter filled her in once they were back at home.

At the reception desk El gave her name and waited while the hotel clerk searched for messages. It took him longer than she'd expected. He even checked in the back office before coming back, saying nothing had been left for her.

That was puzzling. El called Peter's room, using the hotel phone. No answer. Then she asked if Diana had checked out. When she found out she hadn't, she tried calling her room. Again no answer. Her hand still on the receiver, El paused to think where the others were supposed to be. Travis had been assigned to keep Mandy occupied at the dance lesson. They could still be there. El walked down the corridor to take the elevator down to the dance club. Near the elevator bank she spotted Diana and Travis hurrying toward her. El increased her stride to meet them, growing increasingly alarmed something wasn't right.

"Have you heard anything?" she asked. "Peter didn't leave me a message."

"We were going to ask you the same question," Diana replied. "Peter was supposed to call me on his two-way radio but I haven't heard anything yet. Was Max with you the entire time?"

"He left at 2:05. I checked my watch. A call had come in for him on the hotel phone and he left to answer it. He was gone till 2:30. He said he'd received a call that Lily had slipped and hurt herself, but it turned out to be nothing." Their worried expressions were compounding her own anxiety.

"That sounds like he talked with Lamar," Travis commented.

Diana nodded. "I called up to the suite from the lobby as we'd planned. I saw Lamar exit the elevator and head toward the location where Lily supposedly had fallen. I never saw him return. Jones called me and reported that at 2:10 Rocko had received a message on his two-way radio. He told Jones that Lily had hurt herself, and he needed to assist. He mentioned he hoped to be back shortly, but never returned. Jones hung around in the game room for a while then went upstairs to check my suite but didn't find any sign of Neal and Peter. He's now gone down to check their room."

"Rinaldi arrived at the dance floor ten minutes ago and took Mandy away," Travis said. "Diana was waiting for me and we came straight here."

While they were standing in the hallway, Jones walked up. "No sign that Peter and Neal returned to their room." He turned to El. "We'll find out what's going on, Elizabeth. Why don't you go back to your suite? We'll call you as soon as we discover anything."

El's feet were frozen in place. So this was what it was like when the plan fell apart. No wonder Peter went to such lengths to prepare for every contingency. But nothing was fail-safe. She wanted to stay with them, but she knew she'd only slow down their search. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Travis and Jones exchanging looks. The next thing she knew, Travis had taken her by the arm and was urging her to come with him. "Let me walk to you to your room. Would you like me to stay?"

"No. I'm fine. You need to help the others. I can manage." El fought to maintain her composure. They were so short-handed. They needed Travis more than she did.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Once El had left, Jones huddled with Diana and Travis. Their first priority was to notify the front desk of their identities and enlist the resort security in the search effort. While Travis took charge of coordinating their actions with the resort, Diana assisted Jones in verifying the locations of the Rinaldis. Lily had left the Jacuzzi and was having a massage. For the moment they could leave her alone. They found Max and Mandy having a snack in the lounge. Jones identified himself to Rinaldi and ordered him to come with them for questioning. Diana escorted Mandy to her mom. She felt for the kid. Diana was no longer a writer and rival for Neal's affection, but an FBI agent taking her dad into custody. She was going to remember the anguish in Mandy's eyes for a long time. Diana didn't attempt to explain the situation to Lily—there were too many unknowns—but simply informed her that her husband was being questioned.

Thirty minutes later, in a side office of the resort which had been commandeered for their use, the three of them reviewed the current status. Rocko and Lamar were missing. The suite had been searched, but there was no evidence of Peter and Neal ever having been there. Rinaldi claimed to know nothing about what happened to any of them. For now, they were forced to treat it publicly as a missing persons case since there was no evidence of foul play. Jones used the landline to contact the local and state police to aid in the search while Travis called the Bureau in New York and the nearest field office in Albany.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The van lurched along the snow-covered road as it plowed its way up the mountain. The last jolt had sent Peter sliding painfully against the side panel. The van had chains on top of its snow tires, but even with the equipment, maintaining traction was problematic.

He and Neal were lying on the floor in the cargo area. Rocko had used polyester cord to bind their ankles together. He was now driving while Lamar was sitting on the bench seat opposite Peter and Neal. He kept his gun constantly trained on them. Peter had been stealing glimpses through the windshield and his heart sank when he saw the route they'd picked—a service road going up the mountain behind the resort. A gate had been installed to keep guests out. There wouldn't be any vehicles to spot them.

Rocko had gotten out of the van to open the gate. Once they were through, he stopped the van once more to close it. The snow was falling so hard that their tracks would soon disappear.

"We should kill them now," Rocko yelled to Lamar over the roar of the engine.

"Are you crazy? Blood in the van. I'm not going down for this," Lamar shouted back.

Peter knew it was probably fruitless but he had to try to convince them to give themselves up. "Neither one of you needs to go down. You set us free, we'll guarantee your—"

"Shut your damned trap," Lamar growled, "or I will for you." Peter didn't respond. He wanted to keep them distracted but not to the point of provoking them. From the minute movements in Neal's arms he could tell Neal was working to free his hands.

"How far up do we have to go?" Rocko yelled. "The incline's getting worse." He shifted into a lower gear. "We could stop now and dump 'em in the woods, since you're so picky about the van."

"Nah, we're too close to the resort. They'd be found. Just a few more miles should do it. At the crest there's a sheer drop-off. They won't be found for decades."

"Don't count on it," Peter said. "We weren't alone you know. Our team's looking for us now. This is your best chance. Give up now." He continued to argue with them, keeping Lamar engaged. Rocko was focused on the road. Peter could see his white-knuckled hands on the steering wheel. Neal had retained his mask of helpless fear throughout the ride, letting Peter do the talking. He didn't want to draw any attention upon himself. Peter kept slanting a glance over to him but still no sign.

About five minutes later it came. A quick exchange of blinks and Peter tensed his muscles. "Is money what you want? 'Cause I can supply you with all the cash you'll—"

Neal exploded into motion. Like a dolphin surging out of the ocean, he propelled himself upward and straight toward Lamar. His target was Lamar's gun which he sent flying in Peter's direction. With a loud curse, Lamar grabbed hold of Neal while Peter scrabbled to get a grip on the gun with his bound hands. Rocko jerked his head around at the first sounds of the struggle, and the van careened wildly to one side of the road. Neal wasn't going to be able to last for long with the blows he was getting from Lamar. Clutching the gun with three fingers, Peter twisted to one side and fired into the side panel to startle Lamar off him.

Releasing his hold, Lamar hurled himself at Peter, landing on top of him in a bone-crunching tackle, and wrestled with him to pry the gun out from underneath him. The van was picking up speed as it slid backwards down the road, causing both of them to slide around the floor as they struggled. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw Neal fling himself into the front of the van and slug Rocko who was trying to regain control of the van. Peter kicked out at Lamar and curved his back to fire another shot just as the van plowed into a tree. The force of the collision propelled the van sideways off the road and it began to slide down the side of the mountain.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

El paced nervously in her room. Lisa and Sylvia were still at the spa. She hadn't had a chance to tell them what was going on, but figuring out what to say was the last thing on her mind. El stopped to look out the window. It was growing dark, the gray gloominess of the clouds closed down over them like a shroud. Snow was still falling. Her mind went through a thousand different scenarios and what could have gone wrong and each outcome was worse than the one before.

Finally there was a knock at the door. El rushed to open it and found Diana standing outside. She grabbed her and pulled her inside. "Tell me you found them."

Diana shook her head regretfully. "Sorry, Elizabeth, not yet but we will."

"What did you learn?"

"Resort security joined the search. They reported that one of their cargo vans is missing. We suspect Peter and Neal are in the van." She hesitated as if considering her words. "The two bodyguards are also missing."

El swallowed and nodded mutely. Diana didn't need to spell it out for her. She knew what that meant.

"The New York State Police are conducting a search right now on all routes leading away from the resort. As soon as the snow stops, we'll send up choppers. In the meantime, I wondered if you'd like to stay with me in my suite? I have an extra bed."

El accepted the offer gratefully. Being shut off from what the others were doing was excruciating.

"I can help you pack. Would you like me to be with you when you tell your friends?"

"Don't Jones and Travis need you?"

"Not at the moment. They're coordinating the search with the State Police." She paused and grasped her hand. "I'd welcome the company, El."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal came to, gasping for breath. All he could see was Rocko's jacket. He'd landed on top of Neal and his weight was crushing him. Was the guy dead? He was giving a good imitation of it. Neal struggled to get out from under him. The last thing he remembered before passing out was that the van had struck something. It must have flipped over, since they were now lying on the cab ceiling. Neal reached up to check Rocko's condition. Felt a slow pulse in his neck. His hand came back wet and sticky. Blood. He must have been injured by the broken glass in the side window against which they were lying. Rocko acted as an air bag for Neal, shielding him from the shards of glass. Was that some sort of karma?

But Rocko was crushing him painfully now. Damn. From the way his chest felt, he might have cracked a rib. He worked his hands under Rocko to shove him off and squirmed out from underneath him. Rocko had a deep gash in the side of his head and was unresponsive. Neal struggled to the back of the van where Peter and Lamar were lying motionless against the back panel. The van had its nose high in the air. It was like climbing down a well to get to them.

He reached Lamar first and stopped to check on him—didn't want him to pull any surprises. But Lamar was in no shape to cause trouble either. He was lying face down with blood seeping out from underneath him. Neal remembered hearing gunfire when they crashed. He rolled him over to assess the damage. He had a bullet wound to his lower chest. Still alive but unconscious.

Peter let out a low groan and Neal crawled over to him. His motion was causing the van to rock. _Careful. Don't make it slide any more._ He worked to free Peter's hands and then his feet. As he removed the cord from his ankles, Peter's eyes opened. Neal gave a long exhale in relief, not caring about the protests his ribs made. "How do you feel?"

He groaned again. "Like I smashed into a tree."

"Brilliant deduction. That's just what we did." Peter was trying to sit up and Neal put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me check you out before you start riding broncos."

"I'm okay," he insisted, hanging on Neal's arm to support himself. The van was continuing to sway ominously so Neal wasn't going to argue with him. "How 'bout the guards?"

"Both unconscious. You must have shot Lamar in the chest. Rocko's got a head wound."

Peter nodded as the van gave another sharp lurch, tossing Neal on top of Peter. He scrambled off him as the van started to slide down the steep incline.

"Hold on," Peter yelled. They grabbed side straps and braced themselves as the van resumed its downward trajectory. The roof acting like a sled. As the van jostled against first one obstacle then another, Neal felt like he was in a pinball machine. The trees and boulders were acting as brakes to slow their descent, but they were also tearing up the van panels.

Their forward momentum was finally stopped when they collided sideways against a fir tree. But the van continued to rock, alerting them this was only a temporary respite. "Everyone out," Neal yelled. "This is our stop."

Peter had already moved to the back door and was attempting to push it open. But it was so badly dented that the door handle wouldn't budge. Neal stood next to him and they both flung themselves repeatedly at the door, even as their actions caused the van to rock more violently. At last the door gave way to their combined efforts, providing them an escape route.

Before he jumped out, Neal glanced behind to make sure Peter was following him, and saw him rifling through Lamar's jacket. "No time for that. We gotta move. It's a death trap in here." Smoke was already rising from the engine.

"Go!" Peter ordered. "I'm right behind you. I got his radio and gun." With another screech of stressed metal, the van pitched forward.

Neal jumped out with Peter right behind him, both collapsing in heaps on the snow. Neal wouldn't score any points on his landing and it had done his ribs no favor. He rolled over to haul himself up. Peter was already on his feet and was scanning the van anxiously. Smoke was now pouring out of the engine.

"It's gonna catch fire!" Peter shouted and gave Neal a hard shove away from the van. Neal slid and scrambled down the slope, taking refuge behind a large spruce about fifty feet away. Peter joined him as a loud crack rent the air and the fir trunk supporting the van snapped in two. That was its death knell. The van pitched over and hurtled down the slope.

From their shelter behind the tree, Neal and Peter watched it disappear from view, leaving only a trail of smoke behind. Neal focused on catching his breath, too drained to say anything.

He dragged his eyes away from the smoke to survey their surroundings. The road was high above them, perhaps five hundred feet. A steep ravine was below. Snow was still falling but the wind had abated somewhat. He looked over at Peter. "Anything broken?"

He shook his head and winced from the movement. Feeling the back of his neck gingerly, he said, "Just bumps. You?'

"I'm okay. Any idea where we are?"

Peter regarded him skeptically but didn't challenge his assertion. They'd both been battered and bruised by their sled ride, but they'd survived. That would have to suffice. "I was trying to keep track. I'd studied the trail maps before we came here and then again at the lodge. Our best bet will be to head for a first aid station. We shouldn't be too far from Smugglers Trail. Once we get to the trail we'll be able to follow it upslope to a station." Peter eyed him questioningly. "You think you can manage a trek?"

Neal stood up, brushing the snow off. "At last I understand what you've been up to. You've been teasing me ever since Halloween about winter survival boot camp. It's finally arrived."

Peter spun around to stare at him, a tired grin breaking out. "You caught me. Yes, this entire escapade was my fiendishly clever way to make you experience winter boot camp. Okay, cadet, break time's over. Mush."

Neal scanned the route ahead of him. The clouds were so thick it was hard to tell what time it was. They were standing in knee-deep snow and would have to force a path through it to get to the trail which would probably have almost as much snow. They still had the jackets Rinaldi had provided to go down to the basement, but they were both wearing jeans and running shoes. Not the best clothes for what they had in mind. At least they were on a slope. If they'd been in a ravine, the snow would have been deeper, right?

Peter pointed in a direction diagonally down the mountain. "I'll take the lead. Follow in my tracks. It will be a little easier."

Neal wasn't going to argue with him. He'd never been in snow this heavy. His feet were freezing. The temperature itself wasn't too bad but it would rapidly drop off as dusk approached. Peter was already plowing his way down the slope. Neal put his head down and concentrated on following Peter's tracks.

Mentally he described the scene. Would be good for his journal. Maybe he'd write something like those Arctic explorers. Or, when he got back, he could enhance the tale for Diana. He could chronicle their trek as going through the frozen wastes of Lovecraft's Plateau of Leng. Azathoth should love that.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

How much time had elapsed? It seemed like they'd been slogging through the snow forever. The exertion was making Neal's chest muscles tighten into painful bands. He focused on short breaths to reduce the strain. His ribs were becoming increasingly vocal in their complaints. Figures. Whenever he got into an accident, it seemed like his ribs were always the ones who got punished. Good thing it wasn't his ankles. Strong Caffrey ankles. Gotta thank someone for that. What else? Banged up shoulder from forcing the van door open. Could be worse. No blood flowing out.

"We found it!" Why was Peter so excited? If this was a trail, it didn't look very different from what they'd just been trudging through. "I was right. This has to be Smugglers Trail."

Wonderful. More snow. Not quite as deep. Neal tried to smile enthusiastically but it sure as hell didn't look like a trail to him. A swept concrete sidewalk—that was a trail. Not a snow-filled gap between trees.

"How you holding up?" Peter was looking at him worriedly.

"Great." Neal valiantly attempted to project the proper amount of cowboy up spirit as he plunged his hands deeper into the jacket pockets. They were lucky the jackets had hoods. Gloves would have been nice. "You feeling like a Viking yet?"

"Yeah, isn't this wonderful. A winter adventure!" His forced attempt to convey exhilaration was futile but touching. When Peter turned around, it was Neal's first chance to get a good look of him. For quite a while, all he'd been able to see was the back of his navy jacket. Peter was breathing heavily, his face red from the exertion. He'd been blazing the path for them from the beginning and must be exhausted. He was now permitting himself a quick breather, leaning against the trunk of a fir. Neal did the same, closing his eyes for just a second.

"Hey, cadet!"

"Huh?" Neal struggled to open his eyes.

Peter was shaking his shoulder. "Stay with me. Don't go taking a nap on me."

"Right, no nap time." Neal said, suppressing a grimace. Peter had picked the wrong shoulder to grab, but the pain helped dispel the frost which had been settling in his brain and threatening to turn his thoughts to icicles.

"What happened to the USB drive?"

Neal patted his jacket over the front placket of his shirt. "Did I mention what a great tailor I have? Mozzie had created a pocket for the drive under one of the front buttons. We'd tested it before I left."

Peter chuckled. "Remind me to buy three cases of honey wine when we get back."

Neal started to laugh and caught himself barely in time, but not soon enough to prevent a cough.

"Okay, cadet. Time to head out again."

Neal cleared his throat, suppressing a second cough. "Let me lead for a while. Now that we're on this magnificent trail, we're almost home free."

Peter shook his head. "That's okay. It shouldn't be too far to the first aid station, but we're going to have to go upslope." He glanced up at the sky. The sun was glowing dimly through the clouds, barely above the side of the mountain. "We should be able to make it before nightfall."

Neal nodded.

"Got your breath?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Let's go. Does the first aid station have heat?"

"You bet. Medical supplies. Water. Food. They're probably putting the steaks on now."

Neal smiled tiredly. "Right. Tell me more."

 **Lynx Mountain Resort. Sunday evening.**

By the time El finished unpacking, Diana had the fire going in the fireplace and had made her a cup of tea. The cell phones were still out. The power had blinked off and on a couple of times but had been steady for a couple of hours now. It was six o'clock and pitch-black outside.

"Don't you need to help the others?" El asked. "I'll be fine here."

Diana looked hesitant. "You sure?"

El pulled out a book from her tote. "It would make me feel better knowing I wasn't distracting you from your job."

A knock on the door interrupted them. When Diana opened the door, a blur of cream-colored fur rushed straight for El. "Satchmo!" She buried her hands into his fur as he squirmed as close as he could to her, his tail beating a frantic staccato on her legs. Satchmo wasn't allowed on furniture, so she did the next best thing and sat down on the floor next to him. She looked up at Jones and Travis smiling at the reunion and asked, "How did you manage this? Dogs aren't allowed in guest rooms."

"Under special circumstances they are," Travis explained. "Service dogs are permitted and Satchmo qualified. He's rendering valuable service right now."

"It was Travis's idea," Jones said. "He can be very persuasive when necessary. The hotel said you're welcome to keep him here as long as you stay."

Diana turned to face Jones. "What's the latest report?"

"The resort van is still missing. The State Police have brought in vehicles with high-intensity searchlights. The snow's stopped which is a big help. In addition to the main road leading to the resort, there are three service roads which lead off from the resort. They're all being searched. So far nothing. As soon as it's light, helicopters will begin searching the area."

"I talked with the front desk about that phone call Rinaldi received," Travis added. "They'd recorded the number. It was a Manhattan area code. I've been in touch with the Bureau and they're investigating it. Looks suspicious. The call was placed from a phone booth at the Port Authority Terminal. So far they haven't been able to trace it further."

 **Smugglers Trail. Sunday evening.**

"Is that it?"

Neal had finally convinced Peter to take turns walking in front as they'd gone up the trail. Their bickering about who should lead succeeded in revitalizing them as they made the seemingly endless slog. Diana was going to have to write two chapters in her story about the heroism of Neal Carter and Peter Gilman climbing the Plateau of Leng. In the fading light a renewed sense of urgency propelled them forward. The clouds were keeping temperatures from dropping much, but the darkness was making it impossible to see. Both of them had stumbled and tripped more than a few times, no doubt adding to their collection of colorful bruises.

Peter stared at where Neal was pointing. "I think so. God, we should have already found it."

They forced their legs to go as fast as they could to the object ahead. It turned out to be the first aid station—a prefabricated steel storage shed, maybe twelve by eight feet. To Neal it looked like a palace. Peter arrived first and tried the door. It was locked. "I was afraid of that. The ski staff all have keys, but Rinaldi took mine. Can you do your cat burglar thing?"

Neal nodded. They'd been walking with their hands in their pockets but his hands still felt frozen. With fumbling fingers he felt along the collar edge of his shirt and finally extricated his pick.

"Another custom job from your master tailor?"

Neal managed an exhausted grin. "He's the best." Blowing on his fingers to warm them, he started on the lock. Fortunately it was a simple one, requiring no dexterity. Even Peter would have been able to manage it. He opened the door and stepped into the icy-cold blackness inside. "Where's the light switch?"

"Sorry, buddy. No electricity. Keep the door open. There must be a flashlight in here." Neal gazed around the dim surroundings. The wall panels were fitted with shelves containing an assortment of supplies. The panels must be insulated. It wasn't a freezer inside, more like a super-cold refrigerator. There was one window which had a sliding panel shutter in front of it. Neal slid the panel back to let in what little light was left from outside and quickly closed the door. Peter was rummaging through the shelves and found an LED lantern.

The excitement of scrounging through the supplies gave Neal the needed boost of adrenaline he needed. It didn't take long, but when they took inventory a few minutes later, the results looked amazing. Emergency blankets, first aid supplies, a box of granola bars, water, and the best—a kerosene heater. Peter immediately set to work getting the heater going. It was only a small unit. Neal estimated it would only last for a few hours, but the shed was small. Now that he wasn't moving, it was sinking in how bone-chilling frozen he was. His teeth had started chattering and wouldn't stop.

Peter tossed Neal several packets of silvery foil. "Use those tarps in the corner to build us cushions for the floor then cover them with the blankets," he ordered. "We'll wrap ourselves in additional blankets once I get the heater going."

Neal eyed the four-inch square packages dubiously. "You must be hallucinating from that bump on your head if you call these blankets."

"Space blanket, tenderfoot. Survival boot camp lesson number one: that's a Mylar blanket. NASA developed it. Reflects back ninety percent of our heat. They tear easily so treat them carefully, but we've got a box of them. Should be enough for the night."

When Peter got the heater going, Neal immediately held his hands out to the warmth. God, it felt good.

"Stop that," Peter said sharply. "The heat is too intense. You'll damage them."

Neal reluctantly pulled them back. "Do I have to worry about frostbite?"

"Probably not. Frostbite starts at twenty-eight degrees. What with the snow falling, it must be a balmy thirty degrees outside."

Neal bit back his sarcastic comment. If Peter wanted to call this balmy, he'd just think back to the warm sands of Hawaii and go with the flow.

Peter's next comment was even harder to take. "We need to strip off our wet clothes and let them dry."

Neal clung to his jacket in horror. "I can't. I'll freeze."

"No you won't. Your clothes are making you feel even colder. You gotta trust me on this. Wrap yourself in one of these blankets and keep a safe distance from the heater."

He was already miserable. If Peter were wrong in this, which Neal was convinced he was, how much more miserable could he get? Once the misery meter had topped out, would he simply skate along? Skate, yeah that was fitting. Neal chuckled, but stopped when he saw Peter give him a concerned look. He must think Neal was becoming delirious from the cold. Does one get delirious from the cold? He was certain he could.

They lay their wet jeans, shoes and socks in front of the heater. Fortunately their shirts had been protected by their jackets so they could keep them on. They sat on the tarps, holding their legs tight to their bodies and covered themselves with Mylar blankets, even using some to make hoods. For what must have been a half-hour Neal and Peter just sat there absorbing the heat. They had some bottles of water. The darkness quickly settled in. They were conserving batteries and relied on the heater for light too. Neal was too tired to talk. Peter passed him a granola bar. He wasn't hungry but obediently ate a few bites . . .

Next thing he knew Peter was talking to him. He rubbed his eyes . . . must have fallen asleep.

"That's quite a collection of bruises you have. I should check 'em."

"You have a matching set. I'm thawed out enough. We'll check each other out." Neal stood up, his muscles protesting. Aspirin was a definite yes. Neal examined the back of Peter's head with the help of the lantern. There was no blood, and the skin wasn't broken, but he had a golf ball-sized lump to show for their ride down the mountain. He claimed he wasn't dizzy or nauseous. Right. Claimed he was too hardheaded. Liar. But Neal wasn't going to call him out for it.

More troubling was Peter's left wrist. It was red and swollen. "Looks like you got a sprain. You should have said something."

"What could you have done about it?" Peter wiggled his fingers. "See? Not broken."

Neal wrapped it with a compression bandage, grumbling, "I could have made us stop every few minutes and had you plunge it in snow. I could have grabbed a handful of snow and held it on your head."

"Turn me into a snowman? We never would have gotten here before dark." Peter's other injuries were bruises. Lots of aches and pains but nothing broken. Neal had found some cold packs in the first aid kit. They were already cold and wouldn't need much additional time in the icebox outside. He opened the door a crack to shove them outside for a few minutes.

"Your turn."

"No need. I'm fine. Just some bruises," Neal protested, keeping a firm grip on his blanket. "Besides, you should be resting your wrist."

"I'll survive. Lemme see. You can leave your blanket on."

Neal resigned himself to the inspection. "Make sure those fingers are warm first."

Peter gently probed his chest where the worst bruising had occurred. "That's where Rocko was crushed against you," he commented.

Neal nodded. "I've gone through this before. They're not broken, just bruised, maybe cracked."

"Doesn't hurt to wrap them. They could use a little support." Peter took out a compression bandage. Neal held one end to his chest and braced himself while Peter wrapped him. The bandage needed to be tight and Neal involuntarily let out a few grunts, but between the two of them they managed it. Neal then brought in the cold packs for Peter and had him place one on the back of his head and the other on his wrist.

Peter looked over at Neal. "Since you're a veteran of rib injuries, you know you should be using cold packs on your ribs too."

"I know and I absolve you of all responsibility, but Peter, please don't make me."

He made himself look pitiful enough that Peter relented with a final warning not to blame him for the rainbow colors he'd have on his chest later on.

Neal brought over a couple of bottles of water and two granola bars and sat down beside him in front of the heater. "Dinner is served."

Peter chuckled as Neal twisted off the cap and ripped the granola bar packaging for him. "You do a good job of being a mother hen yourself," he commented.

A few minutes later, encased in a metallic cocoon with a gourmet meal to enjoy, Neal was beginning to feel more like himself. He glanced around the shed. "Why don't they have a burner phone here?"

"I'm putting it in the suggestion box," Peter said, "but service may not be back up anyway." He'd already tried the two-way radio he'd taken from Lamar but all he got was static.

They clinked bottles. "You know," Neal said, "there's no reason for us to go to the emergency room."

Peter considered a moment. "You're scared of El, aren't you?"

"Terrified. All she asked was for us to stay out of the emergency room during her getaway."

Peter took a bite of his granola bar. "She didn't say anything about falling down a mountain."

"Good point." They both stopped talking for a long moment then Neal said softly, "Wish we could let her know we're okay."

"Yeah."

* * *

 _ **Notes**_ _: I read a true account where a person survived with bumps and bruises after her car flipped over in a blizzard and skidded down the side of a mountain. According to one of the state troopers who investigated the accident, the snow helped cushion the impact and enabled her car to slide rather than roll down the slope which would have greatly increased the risk for serious injury. But I'm no expert on exactly what damage would occur to a van and the people inside in a similar situation and plead dramatic license for what happened in this chapter._

 _The winter boot camp Neal refers to is mentioned in Chapter 23 of The Woman in Blue. There was another element to winter boot camp, which will be featured next week in Chapter 18: Bigfoot and the Bear._

 _Many thanks to Penna Nomen for preventing me from skidding down the mountain along with Neal and Peter. And thanks to you for reading and your comments!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	18. Bigfoot and the Bear

**Chapter 18: Big Foot and the Bear**

 **Smugglers Trail First-aid Station, Lynx Mountain. February 6, 2005. Sunday evening.**

"What are you laughing at?" Peter asked.

"Us," Neal replied. They were huddled underneath Mylar blankets on a mattress of old tarps and sitting side by side to conserve heat. Both of them had also fashioned hoods out of Mylar. The only part of Neal that could be seen was his face swimming in an ocean of silver. "All we need are antennae on our heads to look like Mozzie's space aliens."

"Well, these are called space blankets."

"Reminding me that we're a lot warmer than we'd be if we were floating in outer space." Neal passed him another granola bar. "Here's dessert. Remind me to speak with the chef about serving the same item for both your main course and dessert. You want me to tear it open for you?"

"Nah. I'm good. The wrist's feeling much better already. And don't give the chef grief. I don't suppose we could have seconds?"

Neal shook his head regretfully. "These are the last ones."

Peter estimated they'd have maybe two more hours before the heater gave out on them. Their clothes were drying quickly. The socks were taking the longest. It was pitch black outside. No moonlight. No stars either, but the clouds were acting as a blanket to prevent the temperature from dropping much. Since Rinaldi had confiscated their watches, it was impossible to know what time it was. They were conserving the flashlight batteries and relied on the dim glow of the heater for light. Still ample supplies of water.

"Any ideas on who blew our cover?" Neal asked.

"That's a puzzle. It must have happened at the last minute, or Rinaldi wouldn't have let us get so close." Peter had started his own list in his head. Aside from his team, many at the Bureau were aware of the op. Sara knew about Rinaldi but not that they were going to the resort. In investigating Rinaldi, she probably questioned others at Sterling-Bosch. Then there was the resort manager. She'd been given strict instructions not to reveal anything, but she might have let something slip.

"Probably a phone call," Neal commented. "The road to the resort was closed so no one could have driven up to alert him." They both fell silent. Two weeks ago, Peter hadn't known who Ydrus was and now he was facing the real possibility that there was a mole working for the criminal organization within the Bureau.

Neal nudged him. "So when are you gonna tell me your Bigfoot story?"

"What are you talking about?" Peter asked, swallowing his final bite.

"Remember last October? When we went to your cabin, you promised to tell me your Bigfoot story. You claimed you needed two prerequisites: lots of snow—we can check that one off—and wilderness boot camp. Surely this qualifies. I want my story."

"You're right. I did say that. Trust you to remember. Which reminds me, weren't you going to tell me about that hockey job you pulled?"

Neal handed him another bottle of water. "Don't try to deflect. After all I went through to satisfy your requirements, you're not going to renege on me, are you?"

Peter exhaled, reminding himself to be extra careful of whatever he mentioned to Neal. He was as bad as El for remembering every single remark. Peter decided to try reasoning with him. "The thing is, it's kind of embarrassing, and if the past is any indication, you'll probably tease me unmercifully about it."

Neal let out a grumble and fell into stony silence.

Peter let it go on for a couple of minutes. "Are you going to sulk all night?"

"Maybe."

"How about a compromise? I'll tell you the Bigfoot story if you admit to something embarrassing about yourself, and we swear never to tell anyone else."

Neal stroked his chin and pondered for a long minute. "Deal, and it's only because I have complete trust in you. I know you won't let me down."

"You have my word, and you can take that to the bank," Peter promised. "Pinky swear?"

"Yeah, we'll do the pinky swear. Okay, Peter, start talking."

Peter cleared his throat. "It was over the Christmas holiday. I was eight. Joe was a college freshman. Big man on campus."

Neal grinned. "A Christmas tale. I like it already."

"My present that year was a pair of cross-country skis. We spent Christmas at our cabin in the Catskills. Joe was already quite a skier, both cross-country and downhill. I'd done some ice skating but no skiing. Mom and Dad were avid cross-country ski enthusiasts and had promised to teach me over the holiday. What I didn't realize was that Joe had made his own plans to make this Christmas extra special. One day when I was out skiing with Mom and Dad, he laid his trap. There's a small cave on our property—"

"This is getting better and better," Neal interrupted. "I didn't know there were caves in the Catskills. Do bears live in them? How about wolves? Or are they haunted by malevolent spirits?"

"Simmer down, Junior. Don't mix up my stories. This isn't Halloween. The Catskills are riddled with caves and caverns. The region is a center for mining operations, particularly iron and cement. Anyway, when Joe was a kid, he'd found a small cave in the woods behind the cabin. It wasn't much bigger than this room."

"Definitely meant for bears."

"Maybe, but not this time. Joe had prepared his plan carefully. He'd brought from home a few spearheads he'd made as a Boy Scout and scattered them in the cave along with some chicken bones. There was even a rabbit carcass."

"Eww."

"Yeah, well that's Joe. Meticulous for details. Something we have in common. He'd taken apart a witch's wig we'd used at Halloween and suspended some long, greasy locks from branches near the cave. The crowning touch was the tracks. Joe had taken thick foam boards and cut them into wide, flat-footed replicas. As I recall, they were about eighteen inches long. He'd strapped them to his shoes and laid a trail of Bigfoot tracks to the cave. After he confessed, Joe showed me his foam footprints." Peter chuckled at the memory. "They were awesome."

Neal smiled with approval. "You couldn't ask for a better brother. What an excellent adventure he made for you."

"That's for sure. I can remember vividly how excited I was when I found those first footprints, and then when I discovered the cave, I was convinced we'd found Bigfoot. It was the best Christmas present ever. How Joe kept from laughing and spilling the beans, I'll never know, but he did."

"But this doesn't sound like anything embarrassing."

"That comes later. When we got back to the cabin, I was bursting to tell my parents of my discovery, but Mom and Dad were out skiing. Joe hadn't confessed yet, because he wanted Mom and Dad to see how excited I was, and he'd planned an additional surprise." Peter sighed.

"So . . ." Neal prompted, rotating his hand in circles to keep him talking.

"So, Joe had gone upstairs to listen to music. He was probably also having difficulty keeping a straight face. I was downstairs, stewing . . ."

"That sounds like you, all right. Then what happened?"

"I called 9-1-1, demanding they send someone. The operator was not amused, to put it mildly. She scolded me for making frivolous use of the emergency response service and demanded to speak with an adult before she'd take me seriously. So I dragged Joe downstairs to talk to her and he was forced to admit he'd tricked me. Poor Joe. I don't know which one of us felt worse. He had to confess he'd staged it and Bigfoot wasn't actually living in the cave. I was crushed. I found out later I'd wrecked his plan. Once Mom and Dad had returned, he'd hoped to sneak out and plant more tracks, showing that Bigfoot had taken off in search of a new cave."

"Aww. No more Bigfoot. It was like finding out about Santa Claus."

"Don't be so quick to judge! Just because he wasn't in that cave doesn't mean he doesn't exist."

Neal broke out in a grin. "That's the spirit. We'll go hunting for him together."

"But not tomorrow. You'll have to wait for another round of survival boot camp before that happens."

Neal considered for a moment before replying. "Maybe summer, when it's warm."

Peter chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds good. Ever since my Bigfoot fiasco I've been sensitive to hairy beasts."

"I probably didn't help when I called you a Wookiee when you were in disguise last fall."

He acknowledged the truth of Neal's remark with a shrug.

"I should have said Sasquatch instead," he quipped and then quickly pulled his blanket in front of his face when Peter tried to throttle him. "Hey, don't tear the blanket! We have to keep these stories secret but we're allowed to tease each other, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are," Peter said firmly. "Okay, your turn now, and this better be good."

Neal exhaled slowly. "Last November when Fowler tried to frame me for the theft of the Marie Antoinette diamond earrings—"

"You're going to tell me how you pulled off the anklet con!" He'd been resigned to only learning the truth about that when they were old and gray.

"No interruptions, please. And you already know what happened. It's all in the official report."

"Not all of it," he pointed out.

"Sorry, I'm sticking with the official version for that. What I'm talking about happened that morning." Neal cleared his throat. "You remember André from the Chelsea Fencing Club?"

"Yeah, he knows you as Gary Rydell."

Neal nodded. "I needed to persuade him to help me and in order to explain it, I had to mention it was a favor for Neal Caffrey, whom he'd never met."

"That's obvious, since he thinks you're Gary Rydell."

"Well, this was a big favor and in order to sell it, I described how I, as Gary, was a good friend of Neal's, and we'd worked together in the past, and so on."

"Yeah?" A little extra prodding was plainly in order. "Go on . . ."

With a sigh louder than any Peter had made earlier, he said, "Somehow, André latched on to the idea that Neal and Gary were in a relationship and was so thrilled for Gary that he'd finally found someone that he agreed to help."

Peter snickered. "You're telling me that André believed you're in love with yourself."

"No, he didn't," Neal quickly corrected. "To him, Neal and Gary were two separate people, but yeah, well . . ."

"Does André still think you and Gary are, you know?"

"Maybe. Yeah, probably. Mozzie was going to tell him that we'd broken up at some point, but with all the distractions he's had—the yellow-faced bee, Janet—he may have forgotten. Besides, he was having too much fun teasing me about it."

"How about Fiona? Does she know she has a rival for your affection?"

Neal gave him such a soulful look that even in the dim obscurity it registered. "Okay, I'll stop."

Neal hesitated for a moment, staring into the glow of the heater. "You know the worst part about what happened with André? It wasn't him thinking I was in love with myself—it was having to deceive him. I first met him in Geneva when I was using the Gary Rydell alias for a job. I'd no idea we'd become such good friends or that he'd wind up being my fencing coach. When he showed up in New York and we started fencing again, I wished I could tell him who I was and invite him to one of my fencing matches at Columbia. But if I told him, I'd burn the alias." He turned to face Peter as he admitted, "Sometimes shapeshifting comes at a cost."

Peter considered for a moment before replying. This was a different, thoughtful side which Neal rarely revealed. He was honored by his trust and also anxious not to blow it. "Conning a friend couldn't have been easy."

He shrugged. "Unavoidable sometimes."

"You've been _shapeshifting_ , as you call it, ever since WITSEC gave you a big push in that direction. And now we're benefiting from all those aliases. That must put additional pressure on you. We could manage without Gary Rydell if you ever decide you want to burn it."

Neal didn't answer him directly and Peter didn't expect him to. He hoped he'd think it over. "You know when Professor Stockman gave me her midyear critique of my art, she concluded that my identity is a lack of identity."

"That's crazy talk," Peter scoffed.

"She has a point. In her analysis she said I had no cohesive style. Each painting could have been done by a different artist."

"You want my assessment?"

"Shapeshifting into Peter, the art critic, are you?" Neal said, raising a brow. "Sure, lay it on me."

"Simply because you refuse to be hemmed in by one style doesn't mean you don't have an identity. You just make discovering it more difficult. Me, I've always liked a challenge."

"Even if what you find is a shapeshifter?"

"Yeah, even if Gary and Neal are in love, I can live with it."

"Touché," he said, breaking into a grin.

"Have you decided whether to accept Sherkov's offer about the doctorate?"

"I'm getting closer. I discussed it with Michael. He's in his second year of the program. He said the toughest part was the workload from being a teaching assistant. How would I manage being responsible for other students' coursework when I barely have time for my own?"

"Is it required?"

"That's what I asked Sherkov. He thought there's a possibility my work on my master's in visual arts could serve as a substitute, especially since I'd be focusing on authentication. If he's right, that would be a help."

"For what it's worth, I think you should go for it. It's a fantastic opportunity. If necessary, we could lighten up on your work at the Bureau. Since you're a consultant, not an agent, there's more flexibility about the number of hours you work. For instance you could work a couple of half-days or shorter hours. If you're accepted into the program, you'll get a stipend. That should allow you to cut back on your FBI workload."

"You mean I wouldn't have to handle mortgage frauds? If it weren't so cold, I'd do handsprings."

"Just as well. Go easy on those ribs for a while, will ya?"

Neal chuckled but didn't answer.

"So what's stopping you?"

"It's such a commitment. When I signed up for the master's program, two years seemed like an eternity. I never thought I'd be spending so much time on an academic program."

"Why don't you break it into small steps? You'll have your dual master's in a little over a year and then you can reassess. But by applying for the PhD now, you'll at least preserve your options." Peter paused for Neal to reply, but nothing was forthcoming, so he played his final card. "You'd be one-upping Henry. He only has a master's."

Neal grinned. "When you put it that way . . . You should know that Mozzie agrees with you on this."

"I'm not sure if I feel reassured about that, but I suppose on a certain cosmic level—"

"—in a galaxy far, far away."

"Okay, Skywalker. Yes, in this instance, Mozzie may have the wisdom of Yoda."

"Who am I to argue with Han Solo and Yoda? If Sherkov can get me out of being a TA, then I'll know it's written in the stars and I'll go for it."

Peter nodded with satisfaction. "Good."

"But let's hold off on any announcements until I know if I'm accepted. Sherkov's offered to sponsor me, but I have no idea what my chances are."

"Agreed. It stays between us . . . and El, of course."

"And Bigfoot."

Their conversation continued off and on into the night, with both of them nodding off at times. The room had grown colder as night deepened. Peter had just finished a tale about Quantico when he realized he'd lost his audience. Neal had fallen asleep.

Peter looked over at the now cold heater. The kerosene had given out over an hour ago. He better get to sleep too. They were huddled close together. Neal's head had fallen onto Peter's shoulder. Peter had taken more aspirin, and his headache was better. They were still alive, cold but not freezing. Tomorrow he'd see El …

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dawn finally arrived after an uncomfortable night best forgotten. Sleeping encased in space blankets with only tarps for a mattress was not recommended for anyone who'd just slid down the side of the mountain. Every one of Peter's bruises and sore muscles was complaining to him for his lack of consideration. The station was bitterly cold, although the insulation in the panels must have helped a little.

Neal had slept fitfully during the night. He was favoring one shoulder and Peter could tell his ribs were bothering him though he didn't complain. Peter's head was manageable. The blow had been low enough that his neck took the brunt of it and the cold packs he'd used the previous evening had been a help.

Peter had awakened earlier at what he guessed was his standard time of five o'clock, but given it was so dark and cold, he'd forced himself to go back to sleep. Now the horizon in the east was starting to lighten. Neal had gone outside to attend to business. Fortunately the heater had lasted long enough to dry out their socks. It would take longer for their shoes, but no help for that.

They were both grumpy. Water might be a healthier beverage than coffee, but it didn't do much to lift your spirits. Peter checked the box of granola bars once more. Just as he thought. None left. He rummaged through the shelves again to make sure he hadn't missed any.

The door flew open and Neal ran in, slamming it behind him. He pressed his back to the door, wide-eyed and breathing heavily.

"What happened?"

"Bear!"

Peter chuckled but there wasn't much humor to the chuckle. "Good try, slick, but I'm not in the mood for games. You better guess again if you think I'm gullible enough to fall for one of Joe's pranks now."

Despite his words, Neal was still trying to sell it. "I'm not kidding. There's a bear outside."

Peter sighed. "Give it up." Shaking his head, he added, "I'm warning you now. I haven't had my coffee and I'm in no mood for practical jokes. We gotta get a move on. The search and rescue boys will be out. We need to spread these Mylar blankets outside to alert them of our location."

Neal looked pleadingly at him. "I'm not joking, Peter. I heard a noise when I was outside, turned around, and saw it. The bear was lumbering down the slope. I must have picked its favorite tree because it broke into a gallop and charged me." He put an ear to the door. "I think it's still outside."

Peter let out a long exhale and moved to the door just as a loud growl reverberated outside, and something crashed into the door.

"See? I told you."

Peter slid back the shutter to look outside. It was too dark to see much, but he was able to distinguish a large shape against the door. Peter quickly closed the shutter. "It's a bear!"

Neal groaned. "Oh, really?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Aren't bears supposed to be hibernating this time of year?"

"Sometimes females leave their dens just before giving birth. They're in pain and can be very dangerous." Peter retrieved the gun he'd taken from the van and headed for the door, but Neal blocked his way.

"You can't go out."

Peter shoved him aside. "I have to. If we want to be rescued, we have to spread the blankets out, and I don't know about you, but I'm ready to be rescued. No bear's going to stop me from getting back to El."

"But you can't shoot it!"

"I may not have a choice. We can't stay here."

"But Peter, she's pregnant," he pleaded.

"So, that's what this is about. She's carrying a baby bear. And you don't want me to hurt your sibling."

Neal glared at him. "This is no time for baby bear jokes. You're not going to scare her. You might send her into premature labor."

"Neal! I promise to be gentle. Think of it this way. If she goes into labor, the medics can help her and us too. We'll all go back in the chopper together." Peter had been listening to the growls as they argued and they appeared to be growing fainter. It was lighter outside now. He gingerly opened the door as Neal peered from behind his shoulder. There, in the distance the bear could be seen shambling off down into the ravine.

Neal's face lit up. "My first bear."

"Yeah, she's probably going to make you the cub's godfather," he said, reaching over and tousling his hair. "C'mon, Baby Bear, help me with these blankets."

Minutes later they'd formed a large Mylar arrow on the snow which pointed at the first aid station and was anchored in place with broken-off tree branches. Joking about the bear had given them a much needed boost in morale, but the feeling quickly evaporated. El had spent all night not knowing if they were alive or dead. Neal and he were bruised, cold, and hungry, but what she was having to endure was even worse.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Your coffee's on the table," Diana reminded El quietly.

El nodded and continued to gaze out the patio door. The sky had turned a light azure blue with the first faint rosy glow of the rising sun appearing in the east. She was going to take that as a positive omen. She'd barely slept. Diana had given her a sleeping pill, but it hadn't helped much. She'd tried to read, but her thoughts kept returning to Peter and Neal.

Diana's suite had been turned into their command center. Travis and Jones had joined them for much of the night. Cell phone coverage was still out, so they were making use of the landline to communicate with the Bureau in New York and state police.

El was grateful to have Satchmo for company. She'd taken him for a walk while it was still dark, so she'd be back for any news once the search resumed. When she returned to the suite, she forced down a little yogurt after being prodded by Diana to keep up her strength. _She'd make a good drill sergeant_ , El thought ruefully. All hard edges, but she meant well. Diana had lit a fire in the fireplace, and El curled up on the couch in front of it. Satchmo put his head in her lap.

The first report came at eight o'clock. Diana took the call. El held her breath waiting to hear what she'd found out. Judging by Diana's expression, it wasn't good news.

Her face must have betrayed her emotions because when Diana got off the phone, she came over and sat down next to her on the couch. She took her hand and said, "A chopper located the van. Apparently, it had crashed against a tree off the service road north of here. They could tell from the broken tree limbs and scattered debris that it had skidded quite a distance down the side of the mountain. They found the wre—the van and are lowering a rescue team."

El stopped her. "What aren't you telling me? I have to know," she added as forcefully as she could.

Diana hesitated then nodded. "The wreckage is at the bottom of a sheer drop-off. From the aerial view of the extent of damage, anybody who was still in the van at the time of impact . . ." She shook her head.

El tightened her grip on Satchmo, refusing to give in to the tears that were stinging her eyes. She didn't attempt to speak.

Diana quickly added, "You mustn't give up. We don't know enough to make any guesses. The state police feel that during the initial descent, there could have been the opportunity to escape. Additional choppers have been called in to search the surrounding area."

"But if they escaped from the van, they would have spent all night unprotected on the mountain."

"There are a few first aid stations scattered on the trails. Peter studied the maps thoroughly before we left. He'd know where they are. They might have been able to reach one of them." She pulled her hair back from her face and twisted it tightly into a knot. "I need to call the Bureau. I'm going to use the phone in the bedroom." As she got up, she gave El a hug.

Diana was making the best case scenario, but El was consumed with all the other possible outcomes. She didn't know how long she'd been sitting in that same spot when a second call came through. Diana took it in the bedroom while El braced herself to hear the latest.

Diana walked into the room and sat next to her. "Not the best news, but it's looking better than a few minutes ago. Two bodies were in the van."

"Were they?" El asked, not trusting her voice to say the words.

"Dead? Yes, but they weren't Peter and Neal. The van had caught fire and the bodies were badly burned, but the police could tell that one was an African American. The other had a tattoo on one arm, something I don't recall either Neal or Peter possesses."

Diana had been revitalized by the findings. While El resumed her pacing, Diana seemed determined to keep her spirits up and deluged her with a running commentary: The snow had stopped. The clouds had remained long enough during the night that the temperature drop at night hadn't been extreme. The sun was out now so the temperature would heat up rapidly. Peter and Neal were resourceful. Peter knew how to survive the cold. Neal wouldn't be much help, but he'd annoy Peter so much with his banter, that Peter would chase him all over the mountain and they'd both keep warm.

With that last remark El couldn't help smiling. "Hey, I'm trying for me too," Diana said. By the time the call came through that they'd been found in good condition, Diana could tease her. "See, I told you so."

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Ah-choo"

"Have a tissue."

After an even louder sneeze, Peter sniffed and took one from the box Neal offered. It was a good thing Jones had stopped to buy extra tissues. Neal had been hitting the box too. The helicopter had spotted their distress display early in the morning and they'd been whisked away from their ice box to safety. They were flown directly to the county hospital to be checked out. On the flight to the hospital, Peter had spoken with Jones who was coordinating the FBI and police presence at the resort. Rinaldi had been taken into custody. Diana was driving El to the hospital and would stay with her while the rest of the team finished up the work at the resort.

Neal and Peter both had received satisfactory reports from the hospital. Their injuries had been surprisingly light, considering all they'd gone through. Peter's wrist sprain was a minor one and had been rewrapped in a compression bandage. The bump on the head was examined and deemed not serious. The X-ray of Neal's ribs had detected no cracks or breakage so he was given a compression wrap and sent off with anti-inflammatories, a set of instructions, and breathing exercises.

By the time El and Diana arrived, their exams had been concluded and they were waiting to be discharged. True, they were technically still in the emergency wing of the hospital, but El was too relieved to tease them about it.

Originally, she wasn't due to leave the resort till the next day and Peter insisted she not change her plans. Saying he was feeling guilty enough on imposing on her weekend, he finally was able to convince her to stay. As a practical matter, she was the only one of her group who had permission to drive the van they'd used to travel to the resort since she'd been the one who rented it. Privately, Peter thought she looked like she could use some time on the emergency room bed herself. He hoped she'd be able to catch up on her sleep today.

Midday the FBI van left the hospital for the trip back to New York City. Diana was driving. Neal had given Travis the flash drive, and he and Jones were combing through the files on their laptops. Neal and Peter had been given orders to rest in the back, and all their attempts to help were waved off with bottles of water tossed their way. At least they didn't fling granola bars at them. Peter didn't know if he'd ever be able to eat another one again. Instead Diana was stopping for fast food every hour. Probably a good thing El didn't see all the cheeseburgers and fries he'd been consuming. Neal was committing the ultimate sacrifice. His caffeine reserve was at such a low ebb, he'd accepted the fast food blend without a whimper.

The others in the van were being kind and had allowed the heat to be cranked up to near tropical conditions. They'd all stripped to T-shirts and jeans. Neal was still wearing a heavy parka and extra socks. Even Peter had a sweater on.

The topic of how Rinaldi found out about Peter and Neal continued to be debated. "Rinaldi's refusing to answer any questions about it," Jones said. "In fact he's refusing to answer any questions at all till he meets with his lawyer."

"Finally he's wising up." Peter shook his head. "It's hard to figure why a smart guy like Rinaldi tried to sell the forgery."

Neal shrugged. "Seeking new thrills? The Dutchman's quality is excellent. What I want to know is how did Rinaldi find out about the Dutchman?"

Travis passed his laptop to Neal. "Here's a list of names I've come across so far. Any of them mean anything to you?"

Neal studied the list, his eyes flitting down the screen. Peter watched him as he read. Suddenly his expression grew more intense and he pointed out a name to Travis. "Where'd you find this one?"

Travis checked his records. "In an email dated November 18, 2004."

"What's the name?" Peter demanded.

Neal looked over at him. "Curtis Hagen. Works in Europe as an art restorer. Also reputed to be a forger. I heard about him in Europe. Supposedly the guy is a master counterfeiter. I never met him. That date corresponds to the period when the Corot forgery was painted.

"The Dutchman?"

Neal grinned. "Is that his ship I see emerging from the fog?"

Travis and Jones had already started searches for any mention of Hagen. While they worked, Peter went over the need for tightened confidentiality.

"You think there may be mole working for Ydrus within the Bureau?" Diana asked.

"We have to consider the possibility," Peter said. "Someone could have gained access to our request for a delayed search warrant."

Jones looked up from his laptop. "That means we need to expand the scope of investigation to include the Justice Department. The application for the warrant passed through numerous hands before it was approved."

"So little is known about Ydrus," Neal said. "If someone inside the FBI, CIA, or Interpol is acting on their behalf to hide evidence, that may be the reason why."

"And not just one," Travis commented. "There could be two or more moles in different organizations."

"The Fengs knew about our interest in Rinaldi," Diana added, "but we vetted them and no link to Rinaldi was found."

"Plus, if one of the Fengs had been the source, there would have been no reason to wait till the last moment," Peter pointed out. "Rinaldi could have simply canceled the trip."

"What about Sterling-Bosch?" Jones asked. "How familiar was Sara with our operation?"

Neal looked up sharply at his words but didn't say anything.

"I'd discussed Rinaldi with Sara on the Tuesday before our trip," Peter said. "I didn't go into the specifics of our op, but I did ask her to look into whether Rinaldi had any dealings with Sterling-Bosch or Weatherby's. Sara had been apprised of the FBI's code of confidentiality when she asked to liaise with us on the case. She hadn't been vetted, but she will be now."

Neal spoke up. "We don't know what the security situation at Sterling-Bosch is like and how many employees she could have spoken with or have access to her files."

"True," Peter said. "She's merely one of many who will need to be investigated. I've met the head of Sterling-Bosch, R.W. Bosch, on a few occasions. I intend to pursue the matter with him." He glanced over at Neal to see his reaction. He hoped this wasn't going to be an issue.

Their cell phone service had returned an hour away from the mountain and they'd been in communication with the New York office. Jones reported that the telephone call to Rinaldi had been traced to a public phone at the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

"The call may have been rerouted there from another location," Travis warned. "The records will be scoured, but it may be impossible to discover the origin of the call."

The van grew quiet as Jones and Travis continued to examine the data files. Neal's head had fallen back against the headrest of his chair. He still had his parka on and had turned his head into the hood as if to burrow even more into it. Peter gave a low chuckle. How much heat could one person stand? If it hadn't been for Neal, he would have asked them to turn the heat down. It was so warm it was hard to stay awake …

Peter jerked his head up. Must have dozed off. He never slept during the day. His headache was better though so just as well. Travis and Jones were still buried in their laptops. Neal was texting on his phone.

They were now only an hour away from Manhattan. Peter turned to Neal. "You don't have to come in tomorrow."

"You're going in, aren't you?" At Peter's nod, he added, "I'm fine. Stop worrying. I may still have my parka on, but I'll be there."

"You're not going to try to go to class tonight," he said. "That's an order, not a question, by the way."

Neal grinned. "Not written in the stars. I already informed the professor. Also texted Fiona so she wouldn't worry why I wasn't there."

By the time the FBI van rolled into Manhattan, Travis and Jones had ferreted out several references to Curtis Hagen in Rinaldi's email. Apparently Rinaldi had commissioned several paintings from Hagen, including the Degas and the Renoir paintings that Neal had examined in the Rinaldi mansion. From the timing of the delivery, Rinaldi had probably commissioned the Corot in order to sell it as a lost masterpiece. The files also contained evidence of payments to the plumber Artie Klossner who had offered the painting to Weatherby's.

Neal looked over at Peter with tired jubilation. "I'd wanted to present the Dutchman to you on a silver platter, but I'll settle for a snow sled."

* * *

 _ **Notes**_ _: With the premiere of Star Wars: The Force Awakens only a few weeks ago, Penna Nomen and I would like to take a moment to honor Star Wars. Penna Nomen's first White Collar fic was "Written in the Stars," a canon one-shot about how Neal's parents met and their marriage collapsed. They were fans of Star Wars, and an adult Neal thinks back on his childhood memories. I recommend it highly. It's a fascinating glimpse into Neal's childhood._

 _In the Caffrey Conversation AU, we've also had our fun with Star Wars—from Neal teasing Peter that he looked like Chewie to Peter calling Neal Skywalker. So, here's to Star Wars—long may it continue to entertain and inspire us!_

 _Many thanks to Penna for her help with this chapter. Her suggestions greatly improved Bigfoot and the Bear's adventures. Next week I'll post the final chapter to The Dreamer and have news about my next story. Thanks for reading!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


	19. Emerging from the Fog

**Chapter 19: Emerging from the Fog**

 **Ellington Mansion. February 7, 2005. Monday evening.**

Dusk had already fallen by the time the van rolled up to June's place. When Neal got out, Peter ran through his usual admonitions to get some rest. That was one order that wasn't necessary. A hot shower, unpacking, and then bed were the only items on his list. Taking time for dinner wouldn't be necessary. He'd had enough fast food on the road to satisfy any cravings for months.

Jones insisted on carrying his bag upstairs. Neal made a halfhearted attempt to talk him out of it but was glad for the assist. There were only a few lights on downstairs. It was just as well that June was out. He was beginning to feel the need for another pain pill for his ribs, and the normal spring in his step had been reduced to a shuffle. No need to worry her. Jones followed him as he mushed his way upstairs.

Mozzie was standing to greet him at the open door to his loft. "I heard you come in," he said, but his smile of welcome quickly turned to a frown when he got a good look at him and Jones. "What's Wet Suit doing carrying your bag? You look pale. Your nose is red. Did you get sick?" Mozzie put a hand over his mouth and retreated to the far corner of the room.

"You want me to get rid of him?" Jones asked, placing his bag next to the closet. "We know how to handle stowaways in the Navy."

With a laugh, Neal dismissed the idea, although for a brief moment it did sound tempting. He thanked Jones who left after tossing a final intimidating glare in Mozzie's direction.

Neal hung up his parka and slouched into a chair at the table.

"What happened to you?" Mozzie demanded, moving only slightly closer.

"Nothing much. Car crash. Fell down a mountain. I'm not contagious." He sneezed and added, "I think."

Mozzie reached into his side pocket and pulled out a face mask. At Neal's raised brow, he muttered darkly, "Flu season. We should always be prepared." Slipping the mask on, he added, "You'd be well advised to carry one, too. If you had, you might have avoided whatever plague you caught."

"Won't your mask prevent you from drinking?" Neal asked with a yawn.

"Good point," he said, sliding it below his mouth. "I'll keep my distance." Mozzie went over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle. "Have some wine. This is a new blend I'm experimenting with. It has a higher percentage of honey. I'm considering promoting its health benefits particularly during the cold season." He poured out two glasses. "You can be my guinea pig. I'll also drink some. This will give me an excellent opportunity to test its preventative properties." Mozzie placed Neal's glass on the far edge of the table and then quickly retreated to the couch with his own glass.

Neal picked up the glass and gently swirled the wine, sniffing it. "Pungent bouquet. One of the gingers?"

He nodded. "Pinecone ginger. The plant has medicinal properties and promotes healing."

With a shrug Neal took a sip. It couldn't hurt.

Mozz eyed him intently. "Notice any changes yet?"

"I just took one sip. I assume it's gonna take a little longer."

Mozzie took out a pad of paper from his pocket and tossed it over to him. "Record your symptoms and any changes over the next thirty-six hours. I predict a miraculous recovery."

Neal raised his glass to him. "I'm all for that." He'd been relying on antihistamines to keep his sneezes at bay. Honey wine sounded much more pleasant. "So are you clairvoyant that I would need healing or was there another reason for you being here?"

"I took the chance. You'd mentioned you expected to be home by today. While you were at the resort, I've had much to work on."

"The wine business, I know."

"Not just that. Now that I'm on alert, there's no time to sleep at all."

"Some new threat to the yellow-faced bee?"

"No, fortunately, although they may be affected eventually. It's the crisis in Argentina. There's been movement."

Ah, yes. Forget the Dutchman. There are far more sinister forces at work. "Have they discovered Hitler's lab?"

Mozzie wagged a forefinger at him. "You mock me, but you'll change your tune when you see my evidence. During your absence I've been conducting my own investigation. I was able to obtain photos from that press conference Tricia's husband held."

Neal took another sip of wine. "Checking for clones in the audience?"

Mozzie didn't take offense. On the contrary. "None that I recognized, but I did find someone else."

"Hitler?"

"Someone you may find even more interesting. Look for yourself." He pointed to a closed manila folder which was lying on the table.

Neal opened the folder and took out an eight by twelve color photo of the audience. He scanned the faces for a moment then dropped the photo on the table in disbelief. "Is that who I think it is?"

"There's no doubt. I have a high resolution image on my computer. I blew it up to make sure of the identification. That's your cousin Henry."

"But why was he there? He's supposed to be in Ecuador. He didn't make any mention of Argentina."

"More to the point, what does he know about the connection between Adler and Nazi clones?"

Neal shook his head doubtfully. "He may not know anything about clones, but he's aware of the speculation about Adler and Wilhelm Salvage. Is Henry pursuing Adler on his own?" That didn't make any sense. Henry had known about Adler and the salvage company since last spring, but he'd never expressed an interest in pursuing the case. What made him change his mind?

 **White Collar. February 8, 2005. Tuesday morning.**

When Peter arrived at work on Tuesday morning, Neal had yet to make an appearance. Good. He must have taken him up on his offer to sleep in. If El had been home, she would have insisted Peter take it easy too, but once he heard the news from Tricia, that was out of the question. Peter had discovered a voice mail from her on his landline when he arrived home. He called her back that evening to discuss it and was glad she agreed with his proposed course of action.

At nine o'clock Peter went ahead and started the morning briefing. Halfway through, Neal appeared at the door. With a nod to the others, he took his place at the table. Jones was summarizing the status of the case. Agents had worked through the night on Rinaldi's data files. One possible address for Curtis Hagen had been discovered, and a raid had been conducted in the predawn hours on a house in Hoboken, New Jersey. There were signs of recent occupancy, and judging by the clutter and leftover food in the kitchen, apparently whoever lived there had left in haste. The house had been scoured for evidence with everything found packaged up and returned to the Bureau for further examination.

Rinaldi had been brought to New York City yesterday with Tricia coming in for the initial interrogation that evening. Despite his refusal to cooperate, the case was going well. There was more than enough evidence in the files to convict him of real estate fraud in addition to the attempted murder charges he was facing. The Dutchman had been identified. The next challenge would be to bring Curtis Hagen to justice. Once the evidence from Hoboken had been processed, Peter hoped they'd have a lead on his whereabouts.

As for the investigation into who had tipped off Rinaldi, that would be ongoing. Peter had already spoken with Hughes who would take the lead in the FBI investigation. The ramifications of having an Ydrus mole within the Bureau were such a severe matter that he suspected the Director himself would become involved. Effective immediately, Hughes had authorized tighter control over data access. He'd also delegated Peter to contact Sterling-Bosch.

When Peter asked for an update on Ydrus, Jones fielded the question. "The preliminary analysis of Rinaldi's data files hints at his participation in a money laundering operation for Ydrus."

"In the email correspondence there is a reference to someone who apparently has the code name of Python," Travis added. "When I first saw the word pop up, I thought of Python, the programming language. But Rinaldi isn't the sort of computer geek who would be writing about an object-oriented open source programming language."

"The insignia for Ydrus is of a snake-like dragon," Neal mused. "They may use snake names to refer to each other."

"That's my suspicion as well," Travis agreed. "In another email I found a reference to Savu and another to Ringed. I checked and those are both python species."

"Python may be the top figure and the others are his group leaders," Peter said. "Have you been able to determine if Rinaldi has an alias?"

Travis shook his head. "There's little actionable evidence in the emails. The correspondence had been signed with only the Ydrus logo, and the email addresses were strings of numbers."

Peter divided up the work assignments. Jones would be in charge of the Ydrus investigation. Travis and Neal would coordinate processing the evidence found in the house in Hoboken. Diana would document the evidence against Rinaldi.

At the conclusion of the meeting, Peter asked Neal to stay. "Tricia's coming up shortly. I'd like you to be present at the meeting."

Neal appeared pleased at the news. "That's convenient. I was going to ask to meet with her today."

"I'd rather hold off discussing the topic till she arrives. If you need a break . . ." Neal took him up on the offer. Grabbing Peter's mug, he left on a coffee run for both of them. Peter returned to his office and got out his files for the meeting. They'd use his office since there would only be three of them present.

When Neal returned with the coffee, he'd slung a canvas bag over one arm. He set their mugs down on Peter's desk, reached into the bag, and pulled out a bottle of wine with no label. "A gift from Mozzie. This is a new blend with magic healing properties."

"Oh really?" Peter said with a chuckle. "Is that why you've recovered so quickly?"

Neal shrugged. "Have you heard me sneeze? He was waiting for me in the loft and insisted I try some. I gotta admit, I feel a lot better." And he looked it. His nose wasn't red. No sneezes or coughs. Peter wished he could say the same for himself. He was willing to give it a try.

Neal reached back into the bag and pulled out a manila folder. Peter eyed it. "I assume that's not also a present from Mozzie."

Neal shook his head. "You're mistaken. Mozzie came bearing many gifts last night."

"Is that why you wanted to meet with Tricia?"

Neal nodded. "And you should know too."

Tricia arrived, cutting short his explanation. After the three had exchanged greetings, Peter started off the discussion. "Tricia called me last night. She'd received news from Mitch over the weekend and we'd like to share that now with you."

"Thanks to Mozzie I think I already know," Neal said.

"That Henry was at the news conference?" Tricia asked.

"That's right." Neal opened the folder and pulled out a photo. Peter and Tricia both examined it. "I haven't seen this before," Tricia commented. "How did Mozzie get hold of it?"

"I thought it best not to ask," Neal said. "As to why, you may not be aware of Mozzie's obsession with Nazi clones. When he saw the initial news conference, he went on high alert to extract every detail he could about the discovery. Did Mitch mention getting a call from him?"

Tricia smiled. "Not yet. Should I warn him?"

"I did my best to reassure Mozzie that I could act on his behalf." Neal dropped his lighthearted guise as his expression grew serious. "Did Mitch talk with Henry after the press conference?"

Tricia shook her head. "When he called, he said he'd recognized Henry from the time he saw him at your birthday lunch last March. After the press conference, he tried to find him but Henry had already left. Did Henry mention anything to you about it?"

"I didn't even know he was in Buenos Aires. Henry mentioned he'd be in Ecuador and traveling around South America for his work, but he gave no specifics. I tried to call him last night and this morning but had to leave a message. He'd warned me he probably wouldn't have cell phone service." Neal picked up the photo and looked at it, frowning. "What I can't understand is why he'd be there. Henry has no interest in Nazis. The only thing that makes any sense at all is a possible connection to Adler. Ignoring for a moment the threat of Nazi clones, we've speculated that Adler was interested in looted Nazi treasure. But as far as I know Henry hasn't been investigating Adler." Neal looked at them expectantly.

Tricia started to speak, but Peter held up his hand. "I better take this one. Tricia and I have no proof but we suspect Henry was trying to discover Adler's location."

Neal huffed in frustration. "Why would he conceal something like this from me? His father researched Adler on his own, secretly making use of Win-Win resources to try to track him down. Henry wouldn't want to follow in his father's footsteps."

"Not unless he had a very good reason," Peter agreed.

"Which is?"

"You."

Neal exhaled noisily. "What makes you say that?"

Peter took a resolute breath. "Agents discovered that on November 30, shortly after Fowler's attempt to frame you, Henry was at LaGuardia Airport, making inquiries about Fowler. Tricia was working with the investigative team at the time and she reported the discovery to me."

Neal sat back and eyed Peter uneasily. But to his credit, he didn't say anything and let him continue to explain.

"You mentioned to me that you'd spoken with Henry on the very evening he'd been at the airport asking about Fowler, and you didn't say anything about this. That led me to believe that Henry was keeping you in the dark, too. You were about to go undercover on the Samurai bond case so I made the decision to discuss it with Henry first. He claimed he had acted on an impulse and had no intention of pursuing the matter. He asked me not to tell you, so you wouldn't 'freak out' as I believe he said. I agreed to keep quiet as long as he stayed out of it. Since that time this is the first evidence we've had that Henry may be continuing his inquiries."

Neal was silent for a long minute before asking, "Does he know about the connection between Fowler and Adler?"

"We have no evidence of that," Peter said, "and I couldn't ask him directly without revealing it."

"But we've had our suspicions," Tricia pointed out. "When you told us about his plans to travel, we wondered if he had an ulterior motive. His volunteer activities with the education through music initiative presented the ideal cover."

"I've regretted having to keep this a secret from you," Peter added. "If you're upset, it's understandable."

Neal shook his head slightly. "No, I get it. Henry shouldn't have put you on the spot like that. It couldn't have been easy for you." He turned to Tricia. "Has any evidence been found indicating that Adler was on the site?"

"Nothing obvious, but there's the standard amount of tourist debris. The ruins are close to a Jesuit settlement which is a popular tourist destination. It appears that many visited the ruins without knowing their history. Mitch is coming home later this week and will bring photos both of the site and of all the items they've documented to date."

"Henry may have been there on the spur of the moment if he were in Buenos Aires anyway," Peter said, "but we believed you needed to know what's been going on."

"He wouldn't have known that Mitch would be making the presentation," Tricia said. "An Argentinian archaeologist was originally scheduled to make the announcement but had to cancel at the last moment."

"Our hands are tied with Adler being out of our jurisdiction," Neal noted. "Who knows what kind of priority the local officials are giving to the case." He scanned them speculatively. "If Henry could arrange for an official investigation, Win-Win's resources could give us a chance to crack this case."

"We'd considered the same thing," Peter said, "but we've been uncertain over what level of cooperation we'd get from Henry. Would he insist on running his own operation and only inform us when he feels so inclined?"

Neal didn't answer. He must be mulling over the same question. Henry had set a new standard in the meaning of the word _deceptive_ over the summer. He'd too often acted on his own in what was supposed to be a joint operation and had frequently misled both Peter and Neal. While Peter had no doubt his motives were honorable, Henry had yet to prove he could be counted on to act as a team player.

"You know how Win-Win operates better than us. What do you think the chances are of it taking on the case?" Tricia asked.

"There were many wealthy investors who lost fortunes in Adler's Ponzi scheme. One or more of them may agree to act as a client. I don't know if Win-Win has any partnerships with Argentinian agencies. Perhaps Henry could arrange for the Buenos Aires Airport to participate in the beta test of the facial recognition software."

"Win-Win's data-mining expertise would be invaluable in tracking down any travel or communications for Adler and Fowler," noted Peter.

"I'm sure he'll call me as soon as he's within range," Neal said. "He'd mentioned he'd be back on Friday. I'll set up a conference call for us. One thing is clear," he added. "If Henry has set his sights on Adler and Fowler, we need to work with him, not at cross purposes. And no more secrets, right?"

"No more secrets," Peter agreed firmly.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Tricia left shortly afterwards, but Neal lingered in Peter's office. He should get up, but he was still processing what Henry had been up to. Peter appeared to understand and was giving him time to think it through. Neal found it hard to fathom why Henry never said a word about it when they were together for Noelle and Joe's wedding last month. "Did you talk with Henry about this in Hawaii?"

Peter nodded. "Henry laughed it off. Claimed it was a momentary lapse, brought on by guilt for having dropped out of contact with you for so long in the fall."

Neal understood all too well from his own experience how easily Henry could have evaded Peter's questions and didn't press him further. He was still sorting through his feelings about the dynamic. The thought of being able to work together to finally bring down Fowler and Adler was exhilarating. But coupled with that was frustration over Henry not keeping him in the loop. Peter wanted to know if he could be a team player. Maybe. If it suited his own purposes. But would he take guidance? Big unknown.

Once he left Peter's office, Neal headed for the lab to help Travis with processing evidence from the house in Hoboken. Travis was sitting at a large worktable and using tweezers to tease out shredded paper from a pile on the table. "We found the paper clogged in a shredder," he explained. "I'm hopeful we may be able to piece something together, but it won't be easy."

Neal retrieved a pair of tweezers and joined him at the task. Travis was right. Matching the bits of paper was going to take hours and hours. It was delicate work. If you didn't focus, you could damage the paper further. Hours passed. Peter came in to the lab later in the day and pulled up a chair to join them. When they finally got the paper untangled, it became a jigsaw puzzle to solve. They were all using magnifying lamps to help the process along.

Several hours and innumerable cups of coffee later they sat back and looked back at the results of their work. They'd been able to piece together three recognizable scraps of a photo. It appeared to be of a painting. Something in scarlet—a dress or robe by the shading. Venetian red probably—could be cadmium. Two other fragments were more difficult.

"What do you think?" Travis asked.

Neal continued to study the fragments. "The brown—it looks like raw umber—maybe a riverbank?"

Travis pointed at another piece. "What would you call this color? Olive?"

"More like oxide of chromium. Nothing's coming to mind."

"Assuming Hagen was staying in this house, you think it was some painting he intended to forge?" Peter asked.

"Could be." Neal shook his head. "It looks familiar but I can't place it."

Travis got up, stretching his back. He walked over to a storage cabinet and pulled out a camera to take pictures of the fragments they'd pieced together.

Peter stood up too. "Doesn't ring any bells for me either." He looked at his watch. "It's close enough to five. I'm taking off. El's home. You're on the early schedule now, Neal. You should have already left."

Neal waved him off without looking up. "Yeah, you need to leave. Tell her I said hi. I'll head off in a few more minutes."

Peter nodded toward the door. "C'mon. I'll give you a ride home."

He couldn't leave now. He was positive he'd seen that scarlet fragment. But where?

Peter rolled Neal's chair back from the table. "On your feet. You don't want to keep me from seeing El, do you? This will all be here tomorrow."

"Okay, I get the hint." Neal got up from his chair with one last look. As he passed Travis, he muttered, "Email me the photos?"

 **Burke residence. February 8, 2005. Tuesday evening.**

The fire was blazing in the fireplace. El was curled up next to him on the couch. Satchmo was sprawled on the floor at their feet. Peter sighed in contentment. All was right in their world once more.

El leaned her head on his shoulder. "Next trip we're going together. No more traveling separately, fella."

"That's a promise. I owe you big time. Any place you'd like to go?"

"Yes, there is, as a matter of fact. The Lynx Mountain Resort."

Peter leaned back to stare at her. "You're serious? I'd thought about it earlier, but after Sunday, I assumed that would be the last place you'd be interested in."

"Don't think it won't cost you. Diana's suite was wonderful. I insist on a suite, ice skating, and, most especially, skiing lessons. You don't want my only memory of skiing to be with Max Rinaldi, do you?"

Peter put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. "No way. You pick the time, and Peter Lamoureaux will be at your service."

El smiled as she nestled in his arms. "Good. But we'll probably wait till next year. Even you have probably had enough snow to last a season. And one other request—no undercover ops please during our next vacation."

Peter winced. "Agreed. No matter how tempting it is. And I want you to know that Diana, Travis, and Jones were all singing your praises on the ride back in the van. Diana was especially complimentary of how you managed to hold it together when everything fell apart."

"When I think about how I was trying to make pleasant chitchat with a man who'd ordered your deaths, it makes my skin crawl," she said with a shudder.

Peter stroked her hair. "Try to put it out of your mind. Treat it like a nightmare that has lost its grip on you."

She turned in his arms to look at him. "Is that what you and Neal do?"

He shrugged. "We have to compartmentalize, hon. Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to continue. We can't forget but we can control the memories and not let them overly influence us."

"I have a new appreciation for how difficult your work is. Having to disguise your feelings … Making split-second decisions when events don't go as they're supposed to."

"You turned in a star performance yourself." He kissed her on the forehead. "But it's also one I hope you never have to give an encore."

"I agree. I'm swearing off suspense thrillers. Romantic comedies are much more my style."

The fire was dying down. Peter was considering adding another log when an idea came to him. "Hon?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever seen _Gigi_?"

She looked up at him, puzzled. "Long ago. I took a film appreciation course in college and it was one of the movies we discussed. I wouldn't think it would appeal to you."

"We should watch it. You and me, champagne and chocolates. I'll bring in food so you don't have to cook."

"It sounds wonderful," El said. "And in return, I'd also like to plan a movie night."

"What do you have in mind?" He started making a list in his head of her favorites: _Emma_ , _The Philadelphia Story_ , _The Thin Man_.

" _Bull Durham_ , hot dogs and beer."

Peter sat back and looked at her in surprise. "That's one of the best baseball movies ever made. You couldn't have picked a better choice."

She tilted her head with a sly smile. "You know, we don't have to wait … I already have a copy. We could skip the hot dogs and go straight to the movie."

"Or even better, fast forward to the final scene. In fact, why watch the movie? We'll reenact the scene here. You'll play Susan Sarandon, I'll be Kevin Costner. We'll light some candles and dance in the living room." He stood up and held out a hand for her. "You know, I've been practicing my dance steps and I'm told I'm not bad."

El took his hand and the glow on her face spoke more eloquently than any words that he'd picked the perfect happy ending.

 **WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The next day Peter arrived at work a little before eight o'clock. He'd decided not to switch to the early schedule. So many of his meetings ran late there didn't seem to be much point. On his team, only Diana and Neal had opted for the early shift.

He didn't see Neal at his desk in the bullpen. After dropping off his coat in his office, Peter headed for the lab. Sure enough, Neal was back at work. The paper shreds they'd untangled the previous day were still spread out on the worktable. He had the three largest fragments in front of him and was studying them, elbows propped on the table and chin resting on his hands. His coffee mug was already drained to the dregs.

Peter pulled up a chair and sat beside him. "What time did you get here?"

Neal ignored the question and exhaled noisily. "I know this, and it's so frustrating because I can't place it."

Peter sympathized with the feeling. When there was something bugging him, he couldn't leave it alone either. He wished he could help. He glanced around the niche. "Why don't you ask your muse?" He nodded to the Raphael drawing on the board. "Isn't a muse supposed to provide inspiration?"

Neal smiled tiredly. "Can't hurt." He turned to the drawing, and stopped, transfixed. Staring at her, his mouth open, a wide smile diffused over his face.

"What?"

"You're a genius!"

"Well, yeah, I know that, but how exactly was I a genius this time?"

Neal was typing like a madman on his computer and brought up an image. "That's it!"

Peter stared at it. "That's _St. George and the Dragon_ , the Raphael painting from the National Gallery of Art in Washington. These fragments are from a photo of it?"

"They have to be. The red that was driving me crazy? It's from the princess's robe. You can see a trace of the gold border if you look through a magnifier." He swung over a magnifying lamp for Peter to use.

Peter was quickly becoming as excited as Neal. He got up to study the image on the monitor while Neal printed off a large copy for them to use at the table. "That gray-green piece must be St. George's armor!"

"You're right," he said, examining the fragment. "That mark we couldn't figure out is the rivet in his knee plate." He went over to the printer to retrieve the copy and laid it out on the table. "I was thinking the brown was a riverbank, but it's actually the dragon."

"Those lines on it make sense now. They represent the dragon's scales."

"Now that we have the reference, we're going to be able to match up more of the smaller paper shreds." He began searching through the pieces, laying aside other bits of color.

Peter pointed out a tiny piece which he'd set aside yesterday. "What do you think? Could this be that tower in the background?"

He bent down to examine it. "I think so. And look, I'd stake money this is from the dragon's mouth."

Peter sat back to consider the implication of the discovery. "Why would Hagen shred a photo of _St. George and the Dragon_?"

Neal paused to look at Peter, his face flushed. "Hagen has to be somehow involved with the painting. He may have stolen it and someone wrote him inquiring about it. Or he could have been contacting a prospective buyer. Perhaps he prepared information about the painting to send out, and then for some reason changed his mind. We catch him, we'll not only put the Dutchman behind bars but we may also find the Raphael."

Usually Peter didn't like to engage in overly optimistic speculation, but everyone needs to make an exception from time to time. "He may be able to lead us to his contacts in Ydrus."

Neal sat back and crossed his arms behind his head. "Then it's on to expose Azathoth and capture Adler—not bad work for a sleeper of a semester."

"I'll settle happily for any one of these happening. First order of business is that ship." He nodded to Neal's watercolor of the Dutchman's ship which was displayed on the board. "You said I could have it for my office when we caught the Dutchman. Identifying him has to count for something. Don't you think it's time for that ship to sail into my office?"

 **Madrid, Spain. February 9, 2005. Ash Wednesday.**

"You sure Rinaldi won't talk?"

"Relax. He knows what the consequences would be and Rinaldi is too attached to that daughter of his to let anything happen to her."

Hagen walked over to the hotel window and looked down at the plaza below. Street crews were still cleaning up the debris from Carnaval festivities. He could see the ash marks on the foreheads of some of the passersby. "I'll set up operations here. I assume that won't be a problem?"

"No, go ahead. I've already spoken with Python and she's approved your request, but don't forget who owns you. These side transactions of yours almost destroyed your value to us. No more freelancing. You'll be getting plenty from us to keep you occupied. There's a major Sterling-Bosch job in the works."

"Do you know where?"

"The States. Probably not for a few months. In the meantime, proceed with the Raphael. I expect a full accounting of all proceeds."

"Of course. When the furor dies down, I'll return. I can guarantee you'll be quite pleased with your investment."

"Good. You can also finish the other job for me then. I didn't pay you for an incomplete mural in my dining room."

"Raphael's _Transfiguration_ was not finished for years," Hagen pointed out.

"The Pope had more patience than I do."

* * *

 ** _Notes_** _: It's only fitting that the title for the final chapter comes from a suggestion by Penna Nomen since she so ably helped me steer the entire story. As we reach our destination, the Dutchman may be emerging from the fog, but there is much which still lies shrouded in mist. How can Hagen be brought to justice? Who is Azathoth and what is he planning next? Will Henry agree to join the team to bring down Adler and Fowler? And who was Hagen talking with at the end of this story? To have so much unresolved is typical at White Collar where cases can continue for years, but it's hard to be patient._

 _That's why I'll be back next week with a new story, The Mirror. The action picks up only a couple of days after the return from Lynx Mountain. Relationships will be tested as Neal and Peter face enemies on multiple fronts in a case that revolves around Ancient Egyptian artifacts._

 _Thanks very much for reading and all the comments you've shared with me. Till the next adventure!_

 ** _Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation_ _  
_ ** _Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Dreamer board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website_


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